


risk communication

by Anomalie



Series: Blade and Quill [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Bad Flirting, Demisexual Warrior of Light, Drinking, F/M, Female Friendship, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Fluff and Humor, Found Family, Gen, Grown adults who can't deal with feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, sex mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2020-06-25 11:07:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19744477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anomalie/pseuds/Anomalie
Summary: Every day The Warrior of Darkness puts herself at risk without flinching - but not like this. How much of herself is she willing to give for the chance to walk in uncharted territory?Spoilers for the end of Shadowbringers, patch 5.1 and the Healer role quest.Chapter 16: Trust is up!





	1. Tipsy

**Author's Note:**

> Or: sometimes it's a friend's job to call you out on your bullshit.

The blasted light had returned. Sophrosyne was dead, Lamitt was laid to rest, and the godsdamned light had returned to plague every sinner. Giott took another swig of her ale at the Wandering Stairs, watching a tall, green-eyed Drahn woman with pale scales and a codex strapped to her hip approach through the crowd.

“Giott! If it isn’t my favorite helmless dwarf! How are you settling in?”

“Oi! Zoeya! If it ain’t my favorite beardless hobdaughter!” the boisterous auburn-haired woman returned. “Found work killing stray sin eaters. It’s a hell of a lot easier when they don’t come back to life.” She raised her tankard in salute. “Pull up a seat at the bar! First round’s on me. Unless you’re going to be a little goody two-boots again and ‘abstain’. “

“Nope,” Zoeya replied, popping the ‘p’ as she dragged a stool up to the counter. “You know we’re past that point in our friendship.”

Then to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence? Oh, brave and illustrious Warrior of – “

“Cut it out, Giott. Is it so unbelievable that I came here for your company?”

“Aww, that’s so sweet. I’ll be straight up with you though, I don’t swing my hammer that direction. No hard feelings.” 

Zoeya rolled her eyes. 

“No?” Giott teased. 

“No. No, I called you because I want to get drunk.”

“You, of all people? And what’s with that look on your face? You look like you’ve lost your favorite hammer, or your heart’s desire turned you down.”

Zoeya became very still for a moment. Then she dropped her green eyes from Giott’s golden ones.

Giott was suddenly speechless. Her little jaw dropped as she saw the most uptight Drahn in Norvrandt drop her bag at her feet, her butt in her seat and her face into her hand with a sigh.

“Um… that’s not what I was expecting. I was expecting you to come up here with some hobshite job to do or need me to smash some monster’s face in.”

“Good to see you too, Giott,” Zoeya replied sardonically. 

“Well, In that case – barkeep! The biggest mug of Wright ale you’ve got for my friend here!” 

The Wandering Stairs bartender raised his hand in acknowledgement and set to it. 

An hour and some aimless chitchat later, Zoeya was halfway through her fourth frothy stein. Giott drained her sixth to the last drop and slammed it to the counter. “Barkeep! Another round!”

“Can we just… slow down for a bit, Giott?” Zoeya wheedled as she swayed in her seat. “I’m getting really… tipsy.” Her pale cheeks were rosy, and her red-violet curls were already escaping from where she had tucked them behind her horns. 

“Are you serious? Sodding lightweight. You better not fall off that stool because I am not putting your sorry arse back on it.”

Zoeya gave her a lopsided smile and giggled. “I’m not that drunk! I just wanted to talk.”

“Talk? You mean, about… feelings and shite?” Giott replied with dread.

“Yeah. It’s just… all my other friends here know him.” Zoeya stared absently into her glass and went quiet. A minute or two of silence went by before the dwarf sighed.

“Alright, what’s the whoreson’s name? I’ll find him and knock him flat on his backside before he knows what hit him.”

“No, Giott. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Didn’t do anything wrong!? You’re staring into your ale like it’s got the keys to the bloody empire of Ronka in it and he didn’t do anything wrong?”

“I didn’t… actually confess. I thought about it. But… things have changed, now. And I know he won’t want me. Not anymore.”

“None of that makes any bleeding sense. Start again. This time take it from the top. I need to know just how hard to hit the bastard when you’re done.”

Zoeya rolled her eyes again, but the edges of her lips ticked upwards for just a moment. Then she put her beer down carefully on the counter and watched the citizens of the Crystarium as they milled about the sapphire canopies of the Musica Universalis markets below.

“I’ve known him for a long time. Years, now. When we met he was just… a friend of a friend, really. An acquaintance in a larger circle I was included in after I moved to a new place. We knew of each other and were on good terms, but that was about it. He was the type that flirted like breathing with every woman who walked through a tavern door. I thought he was annoying to be honest,” Zoeya chuckled quietly to herself as she took a small sip of her ale. “I was so immersed in my studies that I really took no note of him past when I had to work with him to fulfill some request or achieve an objective.”

“So, what changed? Why get all twitter-pated about the man now? Did he start courting you just to toss you away for the latest flavor of the week?”

Zoeya laughed out loud at that, an inelegant, raucous thing that startled the Mystel man two seats down the bar into sloshing his mead on himself. He threw her a nasty look and ordered another.

“The opposite, actually. He fell in love with a childhood friend of his. He was truly devoted to her. It was very sweet.”

“So… you’re in love with someone who is already shacked up with someone else? Tough break, that.”

Giott watched as Zoeya stared morosely into her ale.

“No. I used to encourage him to confess, but he was always waiting for the right time, trying to be good enough. Then… she died.”

Giott didn’t know what to say to that. Zoeya sipped some more of her beer and gently set down the tankard.

“She was an incredible person. She… she willingly sacrificed herself to save people she didn’t know. None of us were ever the same after she passed.”

A moment of silence passed as the bar’s patrons bustled around them. Zoeya raised her gaze into the middle distance, staring at nothing but her own memories.

“He threw himself into his work. We both did, really. But his line of work didn’t often cross paths with mine. We went our own ways, only seeing each other when all our friends met up once in a while. All I knew is that he was running himself ragged.”

Zoeya turned to observe the markets again and began to smile softly as she rested her chin in her hand.

“After that I came here. To the Crystarium, I mean. And when I met him again… he was like a different person. Curt. Defensive. Very little sense of humor at all. But he had adopted a little girl - an orphan, just like him, with nowhere to go - so bright, and brave, and sweet. He devoted himself to protecting her and raising her.” She smiled shyly, and her tail began to gently swish back and forth. 

“We started traveling together again, all over Norvrandt. We fell into this sort of rhythm that felt… like a family. He started to open up to me. To relax enough that I saw glimmers of his old self. One day in Ahm Araeng, when he trusted me enough to talk about her, and what he wished he had done while she was alive… I realized I was already a lost cause.” 

Zoeya took a large swig of her ale. “Sad, isn’t it?” She chuckled with a self-deprecating smile. “I’m in love with someone who is still in love with a memory.”

Giott watched as her friend drained the tankard dry and dropped it to the counter with a clatter. 

“So, let me get this straight. You’re besotted with some poor sod who doesn’t even know because you’re too craven to compete with a dead woman?”

“Giott!” Zoeya cried, offended.

“Sounds like a ‘you’ problem to me. Barkeep! Another round!”

“I swear, I told you – “

“Yeah, but you haven’t told him, gravel-for-brains. Let the man make up his own damn mind. Then you can drown your woes in some quality ale when you have a real problem to cry about.”

“I told you, I can’t,” she hissed. “I’m… not well. I can’t be with him right now. Not when I don’t know if I’ll survive what comes next.”

“But that’s the best time to screw a man’s brain’s out!”

Zoeya’s jaw dropped. She flushed, went pale, and flushed again in quick succession. Giott threw her hands up in exasperation. 

“Then fuck him after. I don’t care. Didn’t realize I was talking to a vir-”

“I am NOT. Wicked white, can we just drop this?”

“Only if you buy the next three rounds.”

“Done.”

The dwarf grinned wickedly. “It’s your funeral.” She reached for her refilled tankard. “I hope this sinner at least has a damn impressive beard. You know what they say, the longer the beard – “

Zoeya pushed her off the stool. Giott hit the ground laughing.  
*****

It took three rounds of liquid courage, but after the Dying Gasp was over, she finally asked him to speak privately in her quarters. Giott’s words echoed in her mind as they climbed the Pendant’s stairs. Sounds of laughter and joy suffusing the city night muffled as Zoeya pulled her chamber door shut. His footsteps seemed loud in the sudden quiet. She took a deep breath and turned to face him.

Thancred’s back was to her, gunblade still strapped across it. He looked around her quarters absently and shrugged. Then he half turned her direction and opened his mouth as if to say something trite.  
Her gaze met his. He froze. His pupils dilated, and his jaw snapped shut. She could feel the flush rising in her cheeks and flooding down her neck to her scales as his eyes drank her in from head to toe.

“Thancred?”

After a few beats, he looked away. He coughed surreptitiously into his fist and walked over to the upholstered bench closest to her chamber door. “Mind if I sit?”

“Oh! No, please, sit wherever you like – “

He sat heavily, his blade clanking against the backrest. 

“– and feel free to take off your weapon. I’m reasonably sure we’re safe here tonight,” she teased half-heartedly. 

“Ah. Right. Proper visiting etiquette and all that. Forgive me, I’m… a little rusty.” He smiled ruefully as he unslung the blade and leaned it against the chamber wall. “Been on the road too long.” 

“Yeah. I know the feeling.” 

He leaned back, arms crossed and relaxed. “So? What did you need to speak to me about?”

She watched his biceps strain the fabric of his coat while he sat, nonchalant, waiting for her to say something. Zoeya tore her gaze away and did her best to act normal while she walked over and sat beside him on the same bench. Two full ilms of distance between them, both fully clothed, and yet she had never felt so exposed and raw. She looked down at her hands.

“Thank you. The white auracite – if you hadn’t intervened when you did… I wouldn’t be here.”

“None of us would be. I just did what had to be done.”

“I know. You would have done it for anyone else, especially with the whole star on the line,” she said ruefully as she took off her gloves and flexed her fingers. She unclasped the codex from her belt and set all of it carefully on the open seat beside her.

“Everyone else did the real work. Especially you.”

She shook her head. “Believe me. Without you, I wouldn’t be here now. I don’t just mean that literally.” She took a deep breath. _Courage, Zoeya._ “Getting to know you again, seeing you raise Ryne… talking by the fire while we were on watch together, having you at my back every day… every memory is precious to me.”

The crowd roared outside – cheering for gods know what – as Zoeya took a chance. She reached out, gently taking his still gloved right hand in both of hers. He offered little resistance as she tugged off his fingerless glove and laced her fingers between his. She spoke softly, knowing she needed to say it before she lost her nerve. 

“I know you’re not ready. I know you’re not over her yet – Minfilia, I mean. But when you’re ready, I’d like to start something new. With you. If you want to.” 

She tentatively looked up to meet his eyes. 

His face was slack with shock.

She was so nervous she was sure she could hear her own heartbeat. She waited with bated breath as a thousand thoughts raced across his face. 

Finally, he spoke. “I’ll be honest. This is the last thing that I expected when you asked me to come up to your chambers.”

Shame and embarrassment washed over her in quick succession. She looked down at her lap and released his hand.

“I… see. You were under the impression I um… wanted something else from you.”

“Quite.”

Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. She furiously blinked them back. “Sorry I gave you the wrong impression. It won’t happen again.” 

Zoeya stood up quickly and left his glove next to him on the bench. She walked over to the window and opened it without a word. The night sky greeted her as she clasped her hands tightly behind her back, the cacophony of the Crystarium revelers below surging into her ears. She heard his armor creak and shift as he stood. She concentrated on breathing deeply and slowly as his blade scuffed against the wall and his sword belt jingled. He took three heavy steps towards the door. He paused. She imagined he must have his hand on the doorknob, racking his brains for something to say to make this less awkward. She waited to hear the squeal of her door’s hinges. _Breathe,_ she chided herself. _Just focus and breathe, until he leaves._

But the sound never came. 

Instead he approached her. Slowly, giving her a wide berth, letting her see him in her peripheral vision before stopping an arm’s length away to her left. Cautiously, after several breaths more, she turned her head to look at him. His arms were crossed and his gaze unfocused, seeing past the stars in the sky to whatever preoccupied him. She noted absently that he hadn’t put his glove back on. He shifted his weight as he looked down and away from her.

“It’s not what I expected,” he murmured quietly, “but I didn’t say I was opposed to the idea.”

Zoeya was speechless.

“I am familiar with physicality. I might be a bit out of practice, but I’m confident enough in that department. I am… not as skilled in other matters. As you well know.” He turned his head towards her just enough to see her without looking her directly in the eye.

"I respect you as a fellow Scion above all else." He swallowed and stood very, very still. "That said, I would be lying if I said I've never had thoughts about you. I wouldn't be here otherwise." 

Zoeya stepped to the window without a sound. She swung the panes shut and latched them with a click, muffling the volume of the city below once more. Her gaze on the floor, she turned to him, leaning her weight against the glass and stuffing her hands into her robe while willing them with all her might to stop shaking.

Her voice quavered. “I thought there might be something between us. A subtle spark. I kept dismissing it as some passing fancy brought on by being so close all the time. Then one day… I realized it wasn’t. Not for me. I always think about you and what you might say, even when you aren’t around, even when I’m alone in the Hills of Amber or in a crowd of anxious nobles in Eulmore.”

Her throat grew tight as she looked up and into concerned hazel eyes.

“You’re shaking like a leaf,” he said in disbelief. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you do that.” He raised his hands as if to reach for her but aborted the movement half-way. “Would you come sit down? Please? I would feel a lot better knowing you won’t literally fall for me.”

That startled a laugh from her. She covered her mouth quickly, watching as a surprise washed over his face and was replaced with a small, fond smile. Then he turned to her table – set with a sumptuous spread, courtesy of the Master of Suites - and motioned for her to take a seat. She rolled her eyes but did as she was bid on wobbly feet. 

“I think that’s possibly the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard.”

“I think it’s probably the worst one I’ve ever used. But you can’t say it didn’t work,” he teased back as he sat beside her. He poured two glasses of water and passed her one. “Drink,” he ordered. “I don’t want to see you get up from the table until you drain the last drop.” 

She raised an eyebrow at him and was prepared to snark back when he started loading up her plate with risotto al Nero, a fresh slice of baguette and blood tomato salad. “How did you know? I’m impressed,” she said, fascinated, as her stomach began to rumble in earnest at the scent of food. 

“It’s easy to tell what makes you happy. Helping people, learning new things, and eating good food. Not necessarily in that order,” he stated matter-of-factly. 

“I meant how you knew my favorites. You’ve been paying attention to what makes me happy?” 

He stopped mid-reach for a cup of broad bean soup. He looked about to say something, then shrugged his shoulders and grabbed a fresh pixie apple pie for her instead. He filled his own plate, sat down and raised an eyebrow at her. “Eat your food.”

“Yes sir,” she replied with a knowing smile.

He was right – she felt much better with a full stomach. So much so that the events of the day finally caught up with her, and she began to nod off at the table. Thancred steadied her with a firm hand around her arm as she stood up from her chair. He made sure she didn’t trip on the step up to bedroom area before he let her go and headed to the door.

“Can we talk again tomorrow?” she asked tentatively. “We never truly finished our conversation.”

“Of course.” He stopped, hand on the doorknob, and gave her a smile that made her heart flutter. “Goodnight. Sleep well.”

Then he closed the door gently behind him and she passed out as soon as her head hit the pillow.


	2. Eyes

Zoeya woke gradually, curled in a fetal position, head fuzzy with residual exhaustion. The ambient noise of the city filtered in through the closed window. A child giggled; merchants hawked their wares; raucous laughter echoed from somewhere down the street. The steady patter of foot traffic as people went about their lives soothed her. She teetered on the edge of consciousness, almost unsure of where she was – for a moment, she felt she might wake behind her family’s compound in the shade of her grandfather’s favorite lemon tree. Perhaps, if she stayed very still, Mother would let her be… just a little while longer.

Slowly, when the light bleeding through her eyelids became too much, Zoeya opened her eyes. The red brick wall next to her bed came into focus first; understanding this must be her room in the Pendants came next. The brooch on her neckerchief pressed into her throat. Her belt cut into her hip. Her toes ached. She looked down at her feet to find she hadn’t even crawled into bed – just fallen on top of the coverlet, fully clothed, boots and all. The marsh green fabric of her arbatel cloak crinkled and creased as she sat up and rubbed her eyes. Her hands were bare, she noticed. But why? And where were her gloves?

“Ardbert?” She called softly.

He didn’t reply. A gentle warmth suffused her chest instead. She placed her left hand over her heart.

Then she remembered.

Standing up quickly on unsteady legs, she rushed to the opaque crystal window and popped the latch. The panes swung outward of their own volition. A bright blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds greeted her. The sounds of cheers and glasses clinking from the Wandering Stairs below swelled in her ears as she gripped the ledge for support.

“We did it,” she breathed in awe, smiling ear to ear. “We actually did it, Ardbert.”

She sank to her knees, closed her eyes, and leaned her forehead against the cool metal of the window frame. She saw him in her mind’s eye as he was just before they Rejoined: courageous, resolute, at peace with himself – every bit the hero he was always meant to be.

 _Thank you. I’ll miss you. I’ll always remember you,_ she thought, hoping whatever was left of him would hear. The warmth in her chest pulsed once and faded.

 **Remember us.** Emet-Selch’s last words echoed in her mind. She sat back on her heels and took a deep breath.

“Don’t worry,” she muttered. “I don’t think I could ever forget.”

Zoeya opened her eyes and pulled herself up to the sill. Her stomach growled. “Yeah, yeah, I know, time for breakfast,” she grumbled back. She turned away from the window to the table, where two half-eaten plates of cold risotto remained. Wait… two?

Her heart jumped into her throat and her mind kicked into overdrive. Her eyes darted to the bench by her door – and sure enough, there her codex lay, her missing black gloves folded neatly atop it. A single fingerless glove much too large for her hung off the seat beside them. She took six careful steps. She reached out, half afraid it would dissipate into aether on contact, but her fingertips met supple leather instead.

“Holy shit.”

Zoeya fell into more than sat on the bench. She looked on in disbelief as her own traitorous right hand slipped into the gauntlet. It swallowed her entire forearm. Her digits barely peeked out of the finger holes. She wiggled her fingers twice, made a fist and let it go. She brought the back of her hand to her nose and verified the scents of oil, sweat and gunpowder. Her heart rate sped up and her blood rushed into her cheeks. “I actually did it.”

_I’m not opposed to the idea. I would be lying if I said I’ve never had thoughts about you._

She grinned stupidly at her hand for far too long. She’d been _right._ He’d cared enough to be concerned for her. Hells, he all but confessed he paid attention to what made her happy. Her whole body tingled with the memory of his calloused palm against hers and his firm grip on her arm.

Zoeya shook her head suddenly, as if clearing cobwebs. “What am I, fifteen again?” she chided herself. “Getting worked up over holding hands?”

She slipped off the glove and dropped it back to the bench before she did something foolish. She really shouldn’t take this so seriously. Even a girl half her age knew friends should take care of each other. Sighing, Zoeya stretched her arms overhead until her shoulders popped. She got up and turned on the miniature orchestrion. An upbeat tune with a syncopated beat played as she made herself simple jam on toast. She tried to fight the pep in her step as she sashayed to her armoire and pulled out a fresh change of clothes. She indulged in a little hop-step and twirl across the room to the shower.

By the time Zoeya scrubbed last night’s grime away she’d given up the act. She belted out the chorus and swayed her hips to the beat as she teased the tangles out of her hair. She caught herself beaming like an idiot in the bathroom mirror as she dressed more than once. Twice while she towel dried her strands she peeked over her shoulder at his glove, just to make sure it was still there. Before she left her room, she doubled back to her desk and scribbled a quick reminder to herself.

  
_\- Buy Giott a drink_  
_\- whatever she wants_  
_\- Don’t tell her she was right_

  
She smiled and tucked her codex and the glove in her purse on her way out.

*~*  
The joy suffusing the city was downright infectious.

Still humming to the song playing in her head, she beamed at every passerby on the way down the stairs as her bag bounced against her hip. They responded with pleased grins and delighted salutations. She spotted her neighbors from down the hall on the first level as she tied her long curls back into a messy ponytail.“Alfric!”

The balding man with ruddy skin and pale horns jutting along his chin turned towards her at the sound of his name.

“Ah! If it isn’t the hero of the hour,” he responded, cheeks wrinkling with his gap-toothed smile. She rolled her eyes.

“You know I don’t like having that word tossed around.”

“Doesn’t make it any less fitting,” he quipped in return. He leaned on his cane and drew her into a one-armed hug as she descended the final step. “Good to see you in one piece, my dear.”

His wife, a petite woman with jet-black scales and silver-streaked hair flowing over her shoulders, eagerly trotted over and joined the embrace. She squeezed them both so hard Zoeya lost her breath.

“Margery, please!” she wheezed.

“Well, you deserve it,” the woman grumbled in that sweet-and-sour way of hers. “Running off to save the world again not two days out of your sickbed. I made a whole pot of soup for you that had to go to waste.”

“Oh, so into my stomach is ‘a waste’ now, is it?” Alfric complained.

“Always,” Margery responded in monotone as she released them both.

Zoeya stepped back and took a full breath. Then she lifted her arms and turned in a circle. “See? I’m alright. No need to worry.”

“Who said anything about worrying?” the old woman replied as she patted down Zoeya’s arms and torso anyway, automatically searching for hidden injuries. Satisfied there was nothing life-threatening after her brief examination, she smiled and reached up to tuck a loose tendril of hair behind the flat blade of the younger woman’s horn. “It is good to see you out of those battle robes for once.”

“It’s been a long time since I wore civilian clothes. Feels a little strange, to be honest.”

“I used to feel that way when I came home after a long deployment with the Guard,” Margery agreed sagely and gave her a brisk pat on the cheek. “You’ll get back into the swing of things before you know it.”

“I hope I get the chance to. What did you two get up to last night?”

“I feel like we should be asking you that,” Alfric countered slyly. “What are these rumors about a man visiting your chambers?”

Zoeya nearly choked. Margery smacked her husband’s arm with the back of her hand.

“Forgive my gossip of a husband. Sometimes he just can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“It’s not gossip if it’s true,” Alfric wheedled.

“It’s no one’s business if it’s true!” Margery scolded.

“You’re no fun, darling.”

“You knew that when you married me.”

“He’s just a friend,” Zoeya interjected hastily, determined to redirect the rumor mill before it truly spun out of control. “I had a couple drinks, he took me back to my room, made me drink water and eat something and put me to bed. Can I get on with living my life now?”

“How boring,” Alfric whined. Then he fixed her with a hawk-eyed stare. “Are you sure that’s all?”

Zoeya fought back the irritation in her voice and fixed him with a look of equal intensity. “That’s it. Thanks for letting me know my door is being watched, by the way. I’ll keep that in mind in the future.”

Alfric took a step back and raised a hand in recognition of a boundary crossed. Margery gave him scathing look that said _I-told-you-so._ Then she turned back to Zoeya. “Don’t let us keep you, dear. May you find shade wherever your path takes you.”

She smiled back. “Same to you.” Then she nodded curtly to Alfric and walked away.

The couple watched her go.

“Are you happy now?” Margery murmured to her husband as the Master of Suites flagged Zoeya down on her way out the door. “Of all people, I’m sure the Warrior of Darkness can take care of herself.”

“Yes,” he mused. “But it never hurts to have another set of eyes. She’s still young, after all.”

*~*

Zoeya cursed underneath her breath as she climbed the stairs to the Ocular. She’d been so focused on her objective last night that she hadn’t thought about the risk of being seen. She’d become far too comfortable in her anonymity in the First. _Former anonymity,_ she chided herself, cursing again as she almost missed a step in her distraction.

How could she have forgotten about Alfric? Of course the old man would have people watching her door. A sharp mind hidden under a harmless façade - He reminded her so much of her late grandfather it was uncanny. He probably had eyes on the movements of every person of interest living in the Pendants. If that old coot wasn’t some form of spy before he retired she would eat her shoes. _If he even is retired,_ she thought bitterly.

Wicked white, what would Thancred think? He played everything about himself so close to the chest. He’d given her a small opening to work with. The last thing she wanted was the rumor mill changing his mind. She didn’t want to think about what would happen if he took it all back because of this. Or… had he already known they would be seen and come anyway?

She stopped in her tracks and felt her cheeks flush at the thought. Thancred’s specialty was espionage, after all. He had to have known there were eyes in the walls. Was last night tantamount to a declaration of intent? But no… he’d been shocked at her honesty. He’d admitted he thought she’d asked him away for other reasons. _Other reasons, indeed,_ her inner voice taunted.

Suddenly she became very, very still. Her mind rewound last night’s memories and played them in fast-forward. That appraising look he’d given her when the door closed. The way his eyes burned her skin.

_Forgive me, I’m… a little rusty. Been on the road too long._

_This is the last thing I expected when you asked me to come to your chambers._

She covered her mouth with her hands and sank to her knees as the realization hit her like a freight train.

Somehow, so single-mindedly focused on confessing her feelings as she was, she'd completely missed every damn thing staring her in the face. All she'd absorbed from the conversation was rejection or possibility without thinking of why he was even there to begin with. There was no platonic intent whatsoever on either side last night. He knew her door was being watched and came anyway, _fully expecting_ a completely different course of events. And had he been any lesser sort of man… no wonder Alfric had interrogated her.

Zoeya groaned and rubbed her face in shame. “I’m such an idiot.”

Yet, as she considered the possibilities, a trickle of molten warmth coiled low in her belly. The more she thought about what last night could have been, the more the foreign sensation grew and spread, leaving her scales warm and skin fevered. She pressed her palms against the cool crystalline floor for some limited relief. Her breathing instinctively changed to a slow, shallow pattern when she recognized the response overtaking her. She sat back on her heels and laughed under her breath. “Oh gods. This is really going to be a problem.”

A bit out of practice, indeed.

*~*

It took several minutes of sitting alone in the hallway before Zoeya finally composed herself. Thanking whatever deity deigned to give her the unexpected privacy, she took a deep breath as she reached the crystalline doors and knocked on the entrance to the Ocular.

“Enter,” a familiar voice answered.

“There you are!” Alisaie greeted her warmly as the doors swung shut behind her. “Decided to sleep in today?”

“I think I earned it this time,” Zoeya sassed back and ruffled the girl’s hair. Alisaie pulled away and batted at her hand.

“I would say so,” Alphinaud added, smile wide. Zoeya smiled back and pulled him in for a quick hug.

The Exarch stood in the center of the Ocular. His hood was thrown back, ears free and perked in her direction. His natural arm was bound in a sling, weight heavily on the staff in his crystalline hand, but his hair was washed and the gashes on his nose and forehead were well healed.

“It is good to see you awake, my friend.”

She crossed the floor to him with a few quick steps and a jaunty flick of her tail.

“That’s my line and you know it, G’raha Tia.”

He gave a watery smile as she pulled him into a gentle embrace. “I couldn’t pass up the chance to return the sentiment.”

“How is your gunshot wound healing?” She asked, slipping easily back into her role as group medic as she held him at arm’s length and examined him. “I can debride and redress it for you later if you’d rather not have a stranger poking at your back.”

His cheeks seemed rather red after she completed her circuit. Concerned, she placed a hand on his forehead. “Any fevers? Chills?” His nose twitched and she cocked her head. “Weakness or feeling faint?”

“I assure you, I am as healthy as can be, all things considered,” he demurred, looking down and away from her before offering a half smile. “I’ve known Chessamile for fifty years, you know. Trained her myself. She’s quite capable.”

“I suppose the head of Spagyrics will do,” she sighed dramatically, returning his grin and giving his crystal shoulder a squeeze. “My offer still stands if you change your mind.”

G’raha opened his mouth as if to reply but was interrupted by the low squeal of door hinges.

“Ah,” he said, tone falsely bright, eyes flicking over her shoulder. “It seems we are all here.”

She took a step back and turned around.

“My apologies, everyone,” Y’shtola greeted the group with a yawn. “The Night’s Blessed wouldn’t allow me a wink of sleep until dawn. All it took was one person – “she gave a pointed look at Urianger, ”- calling my by my true name in public to get them all upset. I told them they could all call me by name and next thing I knew….”

“I do believe they were overjoyed by the knowledge thou cares for them so,” Urianger stated with a twinkle in his eye. "Runar in particular."

“Yes, well. Joy doesn’t leave much time for sleep,” Y’shtola groused as Ryne emerged from behind her.

“Zoeya!” the redhead cried as she rushed the warrior for a hug. The force of her tackle caused the rogue tendril from that morning to slip it’s bounds again. Zoeya laughed and squeezed the girl back. “It was wonderful! I’ve never seen so many happy people in my life! We bought all kinds of street food, but then Alphinaud passed out on the couch. Alisaie and I played games all night without him. He even drooled.”

“I did not!” Alphinaud spluttered in consternation.

“Yes you did,” Alisaie teased. “You should have seen your face!”

Zoeya squeezed the girl in her arms tighter while the twins bickered behind them. “A sleepover?” she chuckled, brushing the girl’s bangs out of her face as she let her go. “Sounds like you three enjoyed yourselves.”

“At least someone did - I didn’t touch a single dram of alcohol. No thanks to this fiend.”

His posture was easy and relaxed as he strolled into the room. The circles under his eyes betrayed a lack of sleep. Five-o-clock shadow across his chin and his hand combing through damp ash-blond strands showed he was fresh from a hurried bath. His leisurely steps came to a stop just a few fulms away from her. He set his right hand – still missing a glove – on his hip and gave her a genuine smile.

Zoeya’s stomach turned a somersault.

Then Thancred crossed his arms, sighed, and gave Urianger a look that could melt glass.

“It appears thou didst not enjoy my recitations of thy youthful romantic exploits, my friend,” the astrologian mused innocently.

“Oh, that’s right. Only the best of friends are completely unable to keep from mortifying you in public with your past indiscretions. I forgot.”

“What else was I to do, when it came to mine attention thou briefly left the festivities with some unknown individual and returned shortly thereafter?”

“You didn’t need to rouse the entire Wandering Stairs just to torment me.”

“Come now,” Urianger scoffed. “Thou might have imbibed any time thou wished. My tales did garner no small number of attentions for thee. There were ample opportunities for complimentary spirits.”

“All with strings attached!” he sniped back.

“Oh? Dost thou not intend to reclaim the lost gauntlet?”

Thancred narrowed his eyes before he looked away and coughed surreptitiously into his bare fist.

“Nevertheless,” he muttered after a short pause, voice low and even as his gaze met hers, “I drank naught but water until dawn.” He gave her a small, secretive grin. “Can you imagine?”

She was suddenly very, very aware of the supple leather concealed so casually in her purse.

“I… yeah,” she breathed. His amber eyes followed her fingers as she reached up and pushed the stray curl back again. Her other hand slipped down to rest nonchalantly on the bag hanging at her hip as she shifted her weight. She could feel her pulse skip as his eyes flicked to the movement of her lower body and back to hers. She smiled. “I think I can.”

She caught Y’shtola’s eye from across the room. The mi’qote woman’s gaze was vaguely curious as she put a hand on her hip and twitched her nose.

G’raha Tia tapped his staff twice on the crystalline floor. “Shall we get to business then, my friends?”

They discussed all the mundane, everyday considerations that would go into rebuilding and restructuring after averting the eighth Umbral Calamity. G’raha would continue researching a way to return them to the Source without dying; Alphinaud, Y’shtola and Urianger would return to their respective posts; Thancred and Ryne would travel to Ahm Araeng with Alisaie to learn all they could about the Wall and the borders of the Empty. Zoeya would return to the Source, chiefly to apprise the remaining Scions of recent events and ensure the mothercrystal was still in working order. When G’raha began mentioning time equilibrium and activated the portal, she stopped him.

“Wait – you mean right now?”

“Well, yes,” he continued. “The flow of time between Shards is unpredictable, but for now it is relatively stable from here to the Source. Best to depart now before a day there becomes a moon here again. At present you should be deposited by the beacon in Mor Dhona within a week of your original departure.”

“A single week there for six months here,” she marveled in disbelief. “What is the ratio right now?”

“One hour for every three on the First.”

“Do you have any idea how long that will hold?”

“Unfortunately I do not. Which is why time is, quite literally, of the essence.”

She turned and looked to each of her friends, hoping against hope they would sense her hesitance. Instead they voiced their unconditional support one by one. By the time she stepped into Thancred’s downcast line of vision, rippling blue surface of the portal casting shadows over her skin, Zoeya knew she was out of options. The others chattered behind them as he met her searching eyes without so much as a hitch in his breath. Then he crossed his arms and spoke so quietly only she could hear.

“We’ll talk when you get back.”

She took that promise with her into the void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, all of the shenanigans the Scions got up to are canon! If you talk to each of them individually in the Ocular before you accept the final Shadowbringers MSQ quest, they'll tell you all about it. When I found out Urianger absolutely dragged Thancred all night I cackled out loud. I knew I had to work it into the fic. :)


	3. Longing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, somehow I never noticed the first draft of this chapter got posted instead of the edited one? I fixed it. Please reread because, you know, it freaking makes sense now ffs

Zoeya pulled the heavy door of her inn room shut.

Moonlight streamed through the frost-rimmed window panes while she wandered aimlessly to the dark fireplace. Her armor creaked as she unslung her zweihander and propped it against the rough brick. She reached into the small pouch on her hip and withdrew a jagged black crystal; one murmured incantation and a tiny spark kindled in the hearth. She sunk to her now-robed knees on the bearskin rug, gradually feeding the flame until it grew strong enough to burn on its own, holding her chilled fingers out towards its flickering warmth as her breath clouded before her face. She glanced up at the intricately carved clock on the wall.

Ten days.

Two hundred forty-six hours and thirty-eight minutes, to be precise.

Zoeya huffed at herself as the welcome heat of the fire bled into her thawing digits. She’d discovered lately that she was simply unsatisfied with morning, noon, and night. Dawn and dusk were too vague; days and weeks were completely insufficient. The innocent phrase “just a moment” irritated her. How _long_ was one of her moments here on the First? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Years?

Her knuckles ached as she flexed her fingers and blew on her fingertips. She glanced up again. The long hand moved two more ticks across the clock’s face before she shook her head with a sigh and forced herself to look out the window instead. Heavy white clumps swirled down from the starless sky. Sidurgu had been right, then; best not to get caught out in this weather.

She’d held up so well. Really, she had – until she’d seen the silver-haired man and child light up when she walked into the Forgotten Knight. Suddenly, she had been somewhere else. With someone else. She’d choked up at the top of the stairs, utterly frozen as her vision swam.

Then Rielle had cried out her name, and if not for that simple auditory cue - _not the right one_ \- she might have wept.

Zoeya rose slowly, stretching her sore muscles methodically as the flames crackled and the clock’s pendulum ticked back and forth. She should have been used to it. Everywhere she went something reminded her. A flash of strawberry-blonde hair in Hawker’s Alley; a similarly built Hyur grabbing a drink at the Quicksand; a gunblade strapped across an adventurer’s back as she passed by the Carline Canopy.

Every time she meandered back to the closest inn at the end of the day, all she felt was the same yearning melancholy weighing heavy in her bones. The Source should have felt familiar. So many things to do. So many places to be. So many friends happy to see her safe and sound. And yet…

Zoeya slung her pack over her shoulder and carried it to the bed shoved against the far wall. Dropping it next to the spindly nightstand, she loosened the drawstring and began her nightly routine. The ache in her chest eased as she washed the day’s worries away. By the time she shrugged into her clean nightshirt and sat on the straw mattress beside her pack, there was only one thing left to do.

She set out her leatherworker’s kit, pulled out a too-large glove, and smiled. Then she opened her pot of conditioning balm and set to work.

It hardly took five minutes for her to finish rubbing the supple leather down. She tipped a dollop of oil onto a clean cloth and rubbed the metal components over the knuckles until they gleamed. The weight in her chest eased as she turned it this way and that, admiring its sheen in the firelight. Was it excessive to do this daily? Yes. Was it crazy to speak to an inanimate object in place of a person? Yes. Was this the only time of day she didn’t feel like a piece of herself was missing? Also yes.

“Today wasn’t so bad,” she murmured, turning back the covers and slipping her cold toes beneath. “I’ll never be finished, I know that. There will always be something else to do. But I’ve put out all the fires I think. There’s no reason I can’t go back tomorrow, right?” She cradled the accidental memento against her chest and fell back against her pillow with a sigh. “No reason I can’t see you?”

How could six months change her so profoundly? Every day she longed for his simple presence at her side. She wanted to hear him laugh, complain, grouse about the frigid weather. She wanted to hear his slow breaths and watch his chest rise and fall as he slept by the fire. She wanted his smart-ass remarks and keen insight, the breadth of his shoulders and the furrow of his brow. More than anything she wanted to reach out and touch him - to reassure herself that he was solid, and real, and safe.

Though if she was truly honest with herself… she wanted even more than that.

Zoeya curled up on her side and watched glowing embers burn low in the hearth. She hadn’t felt a yearning this visceral in years. It was if a long-dormant part of her was coming out of hibernation; something growing new roots, awakening to this new warmth she carried with her, this flame that kindled whenever she thought of him. Every night she wondered: what would it be like? To have, to hold… to feel the strength of his body moving beneath her hands? She flushed all the way down her neck past her scales at that last thought.

It wasn’t first time she’d felt it. Her eyes went unfocused as she idly traced tight-stitched leather seams. A bright sky, a cool breeze, bitter ale on her tongue and his laughter in the air. His mouth, open and smiling, and gods, if she hadn’t already known she loved him then –

And then the way he _looked_ at her. She wasn’t stupid. They’d been toeing a dangerous line the whole conversation. A line they’d been dancing around for ages, a line stretched so thin she wasn’t even sure if it even counted as a boundary anymore, a line pulled so taut by – by whatever this was between them, that when he reached out to touch her hair, when he asked a simple _May I?_ as he caressed her strands between his fingers, when she felt his calloused fingertips outline the skin-scale border at the base of her neck –

In that moment, all she wanted was for him to keep touching her and never stop.

 _Kiss me_ , she’d thought desperately when he pulled his hand away. _Kiss me,_ she’d pleaded with her eyes when she met his gaze. _Kiss me_ , she’d breathed into the leaf he pressed to her lips instead, skin tingling at his very proximity, mind hazy, fascinated by the way his lips dropped into a small ‘o’.

He had looked… panicked? Shocked? Maybe even both.

Then he fled.

It was stupid. She’d known it was stupid. Even with the heels of her palms pressed over her eyes, breath coming in stuttering gasps, silent tears rolling down her face, she had known her entire reaction was stupidly out of proportion. Gods help her, she’d actually _forgotten_ he just lost Minfilia forever, and the wave of guilt that crashed over her at the realization was nearly overwhelming. She was so caught up in her own desires that she couldn’t even take his gentle rejection like an adult. Because she knew that’s what it was – that one word spoken so quietly, almost reverently, that mirror for all the things she couldn’t say:

_Anytime._

Except then, apparently.

Zoeya rolled over and played with the gauntlet’s black leather cuff. The metallic chains wrapped around its length gleamed in the moonlight. She stretched it out on the mattress beside her. She knew the oils she’d polished it with would stain the linens, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

She’d be forever grateful to Giott for pushing her to confess, but… what was it that changed his mind? What suddenly made her worth the risk? What if this was just like before, when he’d come so close just to back away at the last minute? She’d said she wanted something new - and he said he’d thought about “it” - but… what if “it” meant something completely different for him than for her?

She’d heard about friends with benefits before. Having sex for the sake of it, blowing off steam with someone safe and familiar sans the burden of romantic expectations. It seemed a very straightforward way of doing things. Tactical. Practical. Good for people who never knew how long they would be in the same place. Considering what she knew of why he was even in her room to begin with, it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to imagine he wanted something similar when he walked through her door.

Zoeya also knew she could never do it. Not with him.

She’d almost given herself away completely once. She smiled wryly at the memory. He’d taken personal offense when she tried to send him back to the surface before they followed Emet-Selch to his doom, just as she’d known he would. She’d been prepared for a lengthy argument convincing him his pride as a Scion wasn’t worth Ryne’s life. She hadn’t been prepared for him to grab her by the shoulders, remind her of his promise to protect _her_ – greater good be damned - and demand she tell him why she would even try.

She never could look him in the eye and lie. So she told him. Truly, honestly, painfully, told him _._ She told him he and Ryne were _her family_ , fully aware he did not understand what it means for a Raeni woman to give that pledge, utterly convinced she was going to turn and too terrified of taking them both down with her to care.

She had expected him to flinch away from the unexpected intimacy. To withdraw. To let her down gently once more in favor of the status quo. Except he didn’t do any of that. Instead, as if out of one of her grandfather’s fairytales, he had leaned in close and spoken the correct counter-pledge without ever knowing there was a script.

 _As sure as I am your family, you are also mine_.

She giggled in spite of herself. All they’d been missing was her clan’s ancestral handfasting cord. She could only imagine his shock and confusion if she’d tied a silken knot around his wrist and announced they were getting hitched. Wouldn’t that be a tale for her scandalized mother to spin by the hearth-fire? Her wayward eldest daughter, waiting until the literal end of the world to take a bondmate, _and a penniless orphan Hyur, besides! Does she have no respect? Who are his people? Couldn’t she have found a nice Raeni boy to stay home and raise her children? But no, she had to choose the wandering warrior. That’s no way to raise a child, I tell you –_

On second thought, there were several very good reasons she kept her mother at a polite distance.

Zoeya couldn’t fight the smile pulling across her lips as she played with the fingerless glove’s empty thumb. It was far too early to seriously contemplate life-changing commitments. She knew that. But she had this, didn’t she? He had ample opportunity to refuse her and chose not to. He fed her and cared for her and put her to bed when he didn’t have to. She knew he had a spare set of gauntlets – Thancred was nothing if not prepared for every situation - and he’d shown up to the Ocular the next morning missing one anyway. He’d gone out of his way to tell her ( _in public_!) that he hadn’t accepted any of the drinks he’d been offered, and…

She rolled over again and sighed blissfully into her pillow.

Tomorrow. She would go home tomorrow.

She fell asleep with her nose pressed into the palm of his glove.

*~*

Zoeya woke, disoriented, in the wee hours of the morning.

Her heart beat half-out of her chest. Her legs tangled in the sheets. Her nightshirt was pushed up, her naked abdomen covered in goosebumps from exposure the frigid night air. She shivered.

The vivid dream was already fragmenting – hands? Hands. There were definitely hands. Strong. Sure. Excruciatingly deliberate against her burning skin. Hands and lips - on hers, on her neck, under her shirt, beneath her bra - and a familiar voice murmuring, soft and low, over and over and over again, torturing her with his heated breath until she couldn’t take it anymore:

_May I?_

She moved to extract her legs and bit back a moan. The slightest hint of friction between her thighs clouded her thoughts. She lifted her head and found his glove compressed beneath her cheek.

“Shit.”

Of course. Of course she woke up like this.

Zoeya scrubbed her heavy eyelids. She was suddenly very keenly aware of the open space between her rumpled blankets and the wall. She shivered again.

Then she carefully moved his gauntlet to her nightstand, pulled the covers up over her breasts, slipped her fingers beneath the blankets, and let her own hands wander where they willed.


	4. Return

When Zoeya woke up the next morning, she was a bundle of nerves.

She breathed deeply to settle her stomach as she cinched the main drawstring on her pack shut. She didn’t relish the thought of hiking through Mor Dhona. She was so tired of delays. Why should she have to waste time dodging giant gigas while she trudged back to the Syrcus Trench? It didn’t make sense that only that one location linked the First and the Source. She still hadn’t quite worked out how the portal key got there (had the future Ironworks engineers discovered how to time travel without the Crystal Tower?) but it was the only surefire way to get where she wanted to go. If only she could teleport –

Zoeya froze on the spot.

Why shouldn’t she be able to teleport? Even across Shards? Aetherytes were all linked to the Mother Crystal in theory, after all, and since she both had Hydaelyn’s blessing and several pre-existing attunements across dimensions…

With one quick movement, Zoeya loosened the drawstring again and yanked out her codex. She splayed it open on her bed, flipped to the blank pages at the back, and snatched a pencil from her coat pocket.

On morning full of furious scribbling later, she burst into the Rising Stones waving a torn-out page crammed full of intricate calculations and interlocking spell diagrams. Poor Tataru almost expired on the spot. 

“Wh – what is all this?” the poor secretary cried, hands in the air.

“Is Unukalhai in?” Zoeya asked, giddy and breathless. “Or Krile? Or both? Both is good!”

“Give me a just moment,” the harried Lalafell groused, hopping down from the stool behind her desk.

And that was how, in no time at all, the remaining Scions were gathered around the massive desk in the Solar and poring over the fruit of her morning’s work.

“Well?” Zoeya prompts, after the third time Krile tapped her chin and turned her head this way and that. “You think it could work?”

“The theorem is sound. I don’t like the uncertainty involved with so many variables,” she taps a particularly complex equation with one finger.

Unukalhai, hood thrown back and mask around his neck, circles the desk to examine the indicated area. Then he grabs her pencil and scratches half of it out.

“Excuse you?” Zoeya retorts, eyebrow raised.

“Too complicated. You don’t need to account for aetheric density as you would an anima.”

“And why not?”

“Because you have a body.”

“I -” Zoeya stops, frozen.

“This is essentially a proof for transferring a formless anima between dimensions. You have a body, Hydaelyn’s blessing, and a pre-existing attunement. Container,” he taps one symbol, “conduit,” he taps the next glyph,” and destination. Done.”

“Well.” Zoeya rubs the back of her neck. “When you put it _that_ way - ”

“Wait just a moment,” Krile interjects. She erases the scratch marks and rewrites the equation. She squints and taps the end of the pencil against the desk’s edge. “Yes… yes, this could be very useful.”

“For?”

“For bringing our friends back from the First, of course.”

“Oh!” Tataru cries. “You really think so?”

“There really are too many unknowns for comfort, but… this is a very promising theoretical framework to build from. Where did you learn so much about anima?”

“Ardashir,” Zoeya replies. “A Hannish researcher. He and a Gridanian weaponsmith named Gerolt have set up shop outside Helix in Azys Lla. We’ve had to transfer the anima from vessel to vessel at different stages of its growth.”

“An artificial soul, transferred from one corporation to another…” Unukalhai muses.

“Well,” Tataru beams, “It seems we will have to pay these two a visit!”

“Right now?” Zoeya hedges.

“Of course! This is wonderful news! We could find the breakthrough we’ve all been waiting for!”

“We could,” Zoeya agrees reluctantly.

“Oh, it would be lovely to see our friends up and about again!”

“Yeah,” Zoeya sighs with a halfhearted smile. “It really would.”

“As much as I hate to temper your enthusiasm, Tataru, this is simply a lead. We still have much more research to do before we can even test this hypothesis,” Krile chides. She raises an eyebrow in Zoeya’s direction and cocks her head. “If I didn’t know better, I would say your thoughts are elsewhere. Is something on your mind?”

Zoeya freezes, caught out. Then she sighs again and tucks her hair behind her horns.

“Well, you see - ”

“You are worried about time dilation.”

All three women turn to look at the stoic boy in their midst.

“I wouldn’t be, if I were you.”

“Okay,” Zoeya replies cautiously. “Explain.”

“Each Shard is a reflection of the Source. The further unbalanced its elemental profile, the more fragile the metaphysical barrier between realities. The more fragile the barrier, the faster time on the unbalanced shard moves in relation, which accelerates the growing aetheric imbalance until –

“ – the barrier fractures, and a Calamity occurs,” Krile finishes.

“Yes.”

“And how do you know this?” Tataru chimes in, hands on hips. “I don’t recall your attendance at of Zoeya’s highly confidential briefing the day she returned.”

“You mentioned she got called away to another dimension and saved it from being overwhelmed by the Light. I only assumed – “

“Assumed? You seem to have some very specific assumptions. And where did you learn about the origins of Calamities? That’s top-secret intelligence!”

Unukalhai shuts his mouth.

Krile sighs. “It’s alright, Tataru. We can trust him.”

“That’s all well and good, but how did he get wind of such confidential information in the first place?”

“The cat’s out of the bag now.” Zoeya places a gentle hand on his arm. “Do you want to tell her, or should I?”

The chastised boy holds his tongue. Zoeya sighs and shakes her head.

“Elidibus.”

“Elidibus?” Tataru echoes.

“The white-robed Ascian who saved him from the Thirteenth before it fell. Who raised him.”

“The _Emissary_ raised him?” Tataru’s face is the picture of confusion. “Forgive me - I still don’t follow.”

“Emet-Selch told us himself that the Thirteenth was the first Shard to fall,” Zoeya continues quietly. “He also told us that the Ascians let the Shard become so consumed by Darkness it was past the point of resorption, and therefore useless to them.”

“Ah! What we now know as the Void, yes?”

“Correct. So they started their plans over from scratch on new Shards until they succeeded.” Zoeya tries to catch the boy’s eye. She fails. “At least seven times.”

An uncomfortable silence fills the air.

“Oh, Unukalhai,” Tataru murmurs.

“Elidibus values balance.” His voice is tight. Clipped.

“I’m sure he does,” Krile soothes.

“He does not advocate for senseless destruction!”

“But you saw enough.”

Unukalhai doesn’t answer.

After several moments, Zoeya moves her hand carefully to his shoulder. Krile takes two steps forward, her tone compassionate, yet firm.

“Am I right to assume time flows more congruently if the Calamity is thwarted?”

He nods. Zoeya squeezes gently.

“Am I also right to assume that if all elements return to their correct proportions, time flows in concert with the Source?”

He nods again.

Zoeya offers him a simple smile. “Thank you, Unukalhai. Knowing that does make me feel better.”

Unukalhai methodically replaces his mask, lifts his hood, and exits the solar. Tataru winces as the door slams shut.

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea…”

“Not many would take so kindly to knowledge of his origins,” Krile murmurs. “Thank you for understanding.”

Zoeya shifts her weight. “I need to apologize. I should have considered that Tataru didn’t know his secret before I pulled all three of you into this.”

“We couldn’t have kept this from her forever,” Krile states, resigned. Her well-meant smile is full of regret. “I also don’t think he will be ready to speak about it for some time.”

“Should we continue with our lead, then?” Tataru supplies. “We could invite Ardashir and his friend the smith here to the Stones.”

Zoeya snorts. Krile raises a brow.

“Sorry,” she mutters chastened. “Friends is just… a strong word, to describe those two.”

Krile and Tataru look at each other and back to Zoeya.

“… Associate, then.”

“That’ll work. Just make sure you have the bar well stocked. And don’t let Gerolt near it until after you talk business.”

“You’re not inspiring a lot of confidence in your ‘associates’,” Tataru grumbles.

Zoeya smiles ruefully. “They’ll be worth it. I promise.”

“Well then.” Krile claps her hands once. “Someone should inform the Archons of what we’ve discovered. Perhaps stabilizing the timeline will also enable easier retrieval, if your teleportation theorem holds.”

Zoeya rocks her shoulders back and forth. “So….?”

“Yes,” Krile grins. “I believe you should test it.”

“Yes!” Zoeya pumps her fist and takes another look at the torn out page as she snaps her codex back onto her hip and tightens the straps on her pack. “I’ll just leave this with you for now?”

“That seems best. Gods know I won’t be able to explain it once Ardashir comes calling,” Tataru quips.

“I’ll continue monitoring the patients,” Krile adds. “If aught changes, you’ll be the first to know.”

Zoeya commits the altered teleportation glyph to memory and takes a deep breath. “Okay. Here goes.”

Then she closes her eyes, casts her intent, and floats off the floor before she winks out of existence.

*~*

Zoeya feels dizzy when her feet next touch solid ground.

It takes a moment for the buzzing in her ears to stop. Her stomach settles soon enough, though her equilibrium isn’t quite right. She opens her eyes. The light-streaked aetheryte of the Crystarium floats above her. She turns around – and sees the Crystal Tower rising high above the Exedra as people go about their day.

“It worked,” she whispers with awe. A stupid grin stretches across her face. “It worked!”

A young elven Crystarium guard startles as she skips by him down the stairs towards the Musica Universalis. She’ll need to see G’raha, of course, tell him about the newest developments, but first –

“E- Excuse me! Miss!”

It would be wonderful to get back to her apartment at the Pendants. She needs to unpack, and shower, and figure out –

“M-m-miss! Miss W-Warrior of Darkness!”

Zoeya slows down. Then she sighs, stops in her tracks, and turns around. It’s the guard from before.

“You are the Warrior of Darkness, right?”

Zoeya puts on her best dealing-with-the-public smile. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, thank heavens.” He gives her a hurried bow. “I’ve been tasked with informing you of the whereabouts of your compatriots, should you have need of them on your return.”

Now her smile is genuine. “Thank you ser. Where might I find them?”

“Well, they’ve been spending most of their time in Ahm Araeng this last moon – “

_So about a month_ , Zoeya notes. _The three-to-one time ratio seems to have held._

“ – but fortunately, the Oracle has recently returned to the Crystarium for supplies. If you would just wait here for one moment?”

When he returns with Ryne, she almost wants to cry. It’s worse when the girl rushes in for a hug.

“Zoeya! You’re back!”

She laughs and pulls the girl in tighter.

“I missed you. I have so much to tell you!”

Zoeya leans back and pushes a long strand of strawberry-blond hair out of Ryne’s face. Her forehead and cheeks have the look of a nasty sunburn that has just turned tan.

“I missed you too. How about we trade stories, hmm? One of yours for one of mine?”

Ryne grins wider and links arms with her, chattering animatedly about their preparations for voyaging into the Empty as she steers her towards the amaro launch.

_So much for that shower_ , Zoeya muses privately. But she can’t stop smiling from ear to ear.

*~*

The desert has never been her favorite place to be.

It’s bright. It’s windy. Sometimes a sandstorm blows through and flays your skin raw without so much as a by-your leave. And it’s hot.

It’s _very_ hot.

“Gods above, I did not miss this,” Zoeya grumbles as they finally land in Mord Souq. Her stomach lurches as the amaro lands. She can feel the heat on her cheeks already. She unties the pony tail she’d thrown her hair into for flying; half of it seems to have come loose, and she fusses with her windswept curls as Ryne leads her to the back of a small brick building.

“… and we’ve been using this as our base of operations. This is Lewrey,” Ryne says, indicating an approaching Hume man in Crystarium orange.

“So pleased to finally meet you!” He beams, shaking her hand with both of his and bowing over it. “Lewrey, at your service. I’m the Crystal Mean’s engineering liaison in Ahm Araeng for the duration of the expedition.”

“I look forward to working with you,” she returns politely.

“We’ve just been working on fine-tuning your method of transport across the Empty, you see,” Lewrey continues as he guides them around the back edge of a tarp stretched between two long poles. There is a shadow moving behind it. “Wind aether is all but nonexistent in that desolate plain, so an amaro cannot fly. In fact, we speculate any living being with prolonged exposure to such a profound lack aether would be compromised, so we have been developing a mechanical solution…”

She knows Lewrey is still talking. She simply can’t hear him anymore.

There is a man standing with his back to her. His tanned skin glistens in the sun. He wears a sweat-soaked tank top and utilitarian work pants; there are smears of grease on his arms and hands. He raises a soaked cloth from a bucket and squeezes the contents out over his silver hair. Water trickles down his neck and between his shoulder blades. It accentuates the push and pull of his broad shoulders as he scrubs his arms and face. He drops the cloth back into the bucket. His biceps contract in unison as he runs his hands through his hair. A single drop takes its time rolling down his spine. The transparent fabric rucks up around his hips as he grabs the back of his shirt.

Then he starts to lift it.

“Thancred!” Ryne screeches.

“Oh dear,” Lewrey intones.

“Whuh?” is all Zoeya can manage before she is yanked bodily back to the other side of the tarp.

“You couldn’t wait to bathe until you were alone?!”

“I thought I _was_ alone,” the voice from her dream answers testily. She can hear him shuffling around behind her. “Isn’t that the purpose of the tarp? More to the point, aren’t you the one who neglected to announce yourself?”

“It’s the shortest way to the skyslipper,” Ryne whines. “I wanted to show Zoeya how hard we’ve been working!”

The shuffling stops.

“Zoeya?”

His tone is cautious. Suspicious. She licks her lips and swallows.

“Yeah?”

Oh Gods, why did her voice come out so low? Her mouth is dry. Her cheeks feel like they’re on fire. Sweat gathers between her breasts. She pushes her hair over one shoulder, pulls on her collar and fans her neck with one hand for some relief.

There is a moment of silence.

“We had best go the long way to the skyslipper,” Lewrey ventures, tone apologetic.

“I guess we should,” Ryne grouses, before she gives the long-suffering sigh of an impatient teen and yells over the tarp. “Don’t take too long! We’ve got important things to do!”

“I’ll remind you to watch your tone,” he returns, irritated. “Go on. I’ll catch up.”

_Wash up_ , Zoeya’s brain supplies with helpful imagery, as if she hadn’t bathed communally with the Scions countless times before, as if she’d never seen a man in a wet shirt, as if…

“Ryne?” she begs as she’s being tugged out of earshot. “Can we take a break? Get some cactus juice, maybe?”

The girl stops, confused. “Are you thirsty?”

“ _Parched_.”

Oh no. Oh, Gods.

Zoeya closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

Lewrey backs away slowly. “Shall I run ahead and notify the Inn for you? I am sure it’s been a long journey.”

“Thank you so much Lewrey,” she replies effusively, knowing the out for what it is and seizing it with both hands. “That would be wonderful.”

The man nods quickly, expression sympathetic. Then he jogs off towards the village gate.

“I guess we can wait to see the skyslipper,” Ryne pouts, oblivious. “But if you’re really dehydrated, instead of cactus juice, there’s this delicious tea the miners from Twine brew…”

Zoeya offers no resistance whatsoever as Ryne drags her off to the markets.


	5. Courage

Ryne leads her directly to a stall covered by a wide awning. She steps under the shade and blinks until her eyes adjust. It seems to be a grocer of some sort - or, well, Ahm Araeng’s version of one, at least. Various dried meats hang from the ceiling. Hunks of gigantender flesh wrapped in waxed linen sit next to glass jars of wriggling worms on the counter. Zoeya tries not to think too hard about whether the lids are moving. 

“Two glasses of the usual, please!” Ryne chirps at the Mord shopkeep.

“Oh ho! You bring a friend!” The merchant breaks out into a toothy grin and hops from foot to foot.

“I do. And she’s never tried your special brew before, so I thought - “

“Say no more, say no more! New customer is always best customer!” they cackle before they start eagerly rummaging around in the back of the shop. 

Several thuds, bangs and a whistling kettle later, Zoeya gingerly takes a battered tin cup from a set of eager claws. Ice shards bob in the brown liquid; its container is already gathering condensation on the rim. Zoeya surreptitiously checks the beverage for anything squirming and gingerly takes a sniff. Cinnamon, amber cloves…

“Oh thank gods,” Zoeya sighs in relief as she takes a big sip. 

“You like it?”

“Mmhmm. Haven’t had iced masala chai before.” 

“Right? It’s so nice to drink something cold when you’re feeling hot.”

“That’s one way to put it,” she mumbles to herself as Ryne pays and leads her further into the markets. 

Zoeya can feel the nervous tension in her shoulders gradually slip away the longer they spend wandering around Mord Souq. They finger baubles at a goldsmith’s stand and buy tiger lilies from a florist’s cart. Ryne insists on threading one particularly large bloom into Zoeya’s hair, slipping the stem in behind her right horn and giggling all the while. It’s obvious she knows all the locals now - they smile and wave at her as they pass, and she earnestly tells Zoeya all about each of their lives as if she’d witnessed them all firsthand. It’s a joy just to watch her, and Zoeya can’t help but feel proud of how far she’s come from the timid, insecure girl she once met. 

It’s the better part of an hour before they finish their leisurely circuit. Zoeya is in such good spirits when they leave that she adds a few extra gil to the grocer’s tip jar when they finally drop off their empty cups. The Mord grins and shakes it above their head in thanks as the two of them sashay back into town, arm in arm.

By the time Zoeya arrives back at the storehouse-come-expedition-headquarters for the briefing, the rest of the Scions are already waiting inside. She hugs Alisaie despite the girl’s poorly feigned distaste, and Urianger breaks out into an earnest smile when she embraces him next. Ryne tugs Alisaie aside and starts whispering something in her friend’s left ear.

Thancred props up a wall at the back of the room, arms crossed. She can feel his eyes on her long before she turns to face him.

“Hey,” she greets, easy and relaxed, as the others take their places around the makeshift conference table. 

“Hello yourself,” he returns quietly as she steps a bit closer. 

He looks the same. His white coat has been stained by smears of red-brown earth, and his skin is darker from constant exposure to the punishing desert sun. The beginnings of his crow’s feet stand out more. His hair is a touch longer. His boots are covered in dust. But the way he looks at her, the way he just barely smiles when she comes to a stop in front of him, the way his posture almost imperceptibly eases when she tilts her head in return… that’s all the same. 

Thancred’s eyes flick to the flower suspended in her hair. He raises an eyebrow. She gives a helpless little shrug and tucks it further into her curls. He huffs and shakes his head. His lips curve upwards just a little more as something in his gaze softens. She shifts her weight self-consciously and offers him a sheepish smile.

“Sorry, um… about earlier.”

A poorly stifled snicker rings out from behind her. Zoeya glances quickly over her shoulder. Ryne covers her mouth with both hands. Alisaie takes one look at the younger girl and snorts. She can hear Thancred moving behind her, coming up beside her to take a seat on a chair-height crate. His previously open expression is shut tight again, brows furrowed and mouth turned down. Zoeya turns around properly and puts a hand on her hip.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” Alisaie sighs dramatically as she gives Thancred a speaking look. “Nothing at all.”

“Shall we begin?” Urianger interjects. From his tone it’s clear he’s aware of their mischief and has no plans whatsoever to address it. Zoeya gives him a searching look, but he simply smiles blandly at her and refuses to elaborate.

Zoeya shakes her head, flips open her codex, lays it out on the table and leans over it as she sketches. “Right then. First, I should explain how I came back this morning…”

*~*

As it turns out, Unukalhai’s time theories dovetail neatly with the expedition’s mission. Whatever is causing the incredibly strong Light signature in the Empty has to be dealt with before they can return aetheric balance to the First, and it makes sense that the Scions would wait for her return before making contact with something that may very well be a Lightwarden. The presence of another Lightwarden presents a number of questions - did something else survive the Flood? What drove such a powerful sin eater stay so far away from Norvrandt? How long has it been there? For what purpose? - and the only way to find out is to go see for themselves.

Urianger and Alisaie only confirm her suspicions regarding teleportation. Despite numerous attempts during their early days on the First, the Scions (with the exception of Thancred) are able to teleport freely within this Shard, but not back to the Source. There is much debate as to what exactly that implies about the current bodies they occupy. Thancred and Urianger argue over whether the anima angle would even be feasible, with Urianger advocating for white auracite as a possible vessel.

“Arguing in circles will get us nowhere. We simply do not have enough information to work with,” Thancred grouses. 

“It’s worth investigating, at the very least,” Alisaie insists. “Did Krile mention any issues with our bodies back home?”

Zoeya shakes her head. “She said she’d let me know if anything changed.”

“Well then. It seems we have a bit more time to tease apart this knot you’ve brought us.”

“Aye,” Urianger agrees. “We should pursue our original objective until such time as more knowledge and resources become available. Remedying the source of yonder Light should only assist in our ultimate endeavor until such time as thy research may bear fruit.”

Ryne stays silent, staring blankly at her hands. 

“Right then. We proceed as planned, and continue our investigation,” Thancred continues. 

“I’ll stay here at the Inn,” Alisaie adds. “Only room for four of us in that thing, after all, and Urianger knows far more about aetherology than I ever will.”

“Fair enough. Ryne, you’ll need to navigate.”

The girl’s head pops up. “Really? Can I?”

“Well, we hardly know what we’re looking for without you,” he points out, leaning on his forearms. “Besides, it’s your idea. How could we leave you behind?”

The smile Ryne gives him is bright and brilliant. 

Zoeya feels herself fall for him just a little more.

*~*

They leave the next day at dawn from the Derrick.

The Empty reminds her of nothing so much as the Burn, just… worse. Even the Burn had savage insects fighting for survival and a dragon defending its territory. This is just -

“Depressing,” Thancred supplies.

“Yeah.”

His hair whips around his head as they speed across the vast expanse. She idly watches his broad shoulders move from the back seat as he leans forward, reaches for objects in the passenger seat, turns dials and shifts from side to side. 

“You two back there may as well take a nap. I have a feeling we've a good few malms ahead of us.”

Thancred joked about Urianger talking her to death before they even left the desert, but It’s the steady comfort of his own presence that lulls her into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

*~*

Zoeya wakes late in the night.

_ It’s freezing. _

She rolls over and finds Ryne has stolen all of her covers. The girl is wrapped up so tight Zoeya can’t even tease a corner free to attempt retrieval without unspooling the entire godsforsaken mess. Of all things - subconscious cuddling for body heat she could understand, but stealing the blankets? Really? 

She sits up in their shared tent, rubbing her hands together for warmth. Her breath clouds before her face. Her back aches from lying on the hard ground. This would be so much easier if they could just light a fire, or set warming runes - but no, that requires fire aether, and Urianger wanted to restore  _ water _ first, and she’d already donated her bedroll to the poor girl who got tossed out of the Void, and there isn’t even enough ambient energy to set up a proper aetheryte - 

So here they are. Stuck freezing their asses off in the middle of nowhere, with no easy way to go back for more supplies. She’s wearing her best woolen socks and three layers of undershirts and it still isn’t enough. Crabby and discomfited, Zoeya blows on her fingers. Nothing for it, then. Might as well relieve whoever’s on watch. If nothing else she can do jumping jacks until dawn to ward off frostbite. She reluctantly crawls forward and carefully pushes back the tent flap. 

The giant water crystal juts out of the lakebed, glowing blue as it pours a clear stream from its face. A full moon shines off the rippling water, bathing their makeshift campsite in an otherworldly glow as thousands upon thousands of stars twinkle in the night sky. 

Thancred paces back and forth, hands in the pockets of his jacket. He nods as she stands up and tilts his chin once to the left. 

“Necessary is two dunes that way. Can’t miss it.”

She blinks twice, processing, before she snorts and waves him off. He shrugs and resumes his pacing. 

“Any idea what time it is?”

“Just after midnight, I’d wager.”

“Mmm.” She starts following the track he’s worn in the sand. “Mind if I join you?”

“Can’t sleep?”

She shivers. “Too cold.”

“You should’ve let me give the girl my bedroll instead of yours.”

“Hey, I didn’t think it would be a problem until your kid stole all my covers,” she retorts. 

“Why didn’t you take them back?”

“She’s swaddled herself up like an infant. What was I supposed to do?” Then she shivers again. “Go to bed, Thancred. I’ll take your watch. Someone should be warm tonight.”

He nods. “Alright.” Then he turns on his heel and ducks into his tent without another word. 

Well.

She’d expected more resistance than that, but… she did get what she asked for. She tucks her hands into the pockets of her own robes and resumes wearing holes in the soles of her boots. She can hear him shuffling around inside: getting nice and comfortable, no doubt. She shakes her head and rubs her arms. Maybe she should draw a hopscotch in the sand. Get herself good and tired out. Maybe then she’ll find a way to pass out despite the chill seeping into her bones. 

She’s drawn her third box in the sand when Thancred re-emerges, thick woolen blanket slung over his arm. Then he walks right up to her. “Here.”

She blinks at him. “That’s yours.”

“Good eye.”

She looks down and back up before it dawns on her sleep-deprived mind. “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly -”

“Are you fighting a primal in the morning or not?”

“... Yes?”

“Then take the damn blanket. You need to sleep more than I do, at any rate.”

“Then what are you supposed to sleep with?” she snarks back. “Does that jacket actually close in the front?”

“Take the blanket, Zoeya. Go to sleep.”

“And leave you to freeze out here by yourself?”

“What else would you have me do, woman?” he snaps, irritated. Then he slings it around her shoulders and forcibly wraps her in it.

Her mind goes blank. Her cheeks flush. The heavy fabric scrapes the ground as he tucks it in around her neck. She catches the scents of sandalwood and pine sap as he pulls a fold up from behind her head to use as a makeshift hood. He’s all business as he tugs this way and that, testing the security of her brand new cocoon.

“There.” 

“You, uh…” she swallows. “You’re very good at this.”

“You’re not the only one who refuses to go to bed.”

She looks down at her thoroughly imprisoned arms and back up again. “Suddenly I understand why Ryne sleeps like this.”

He smirks at her. Her cheeks flush hotter. Then he pivots her towards her tent and leans in close to the back of her head where the tip of her horn pokes up through the weave.

“Goodnight, Zoeya.”

Damn.

Damn, damn, damn.

This is the second time in as many days he’s wrecked her without even trying. It’s absurd. He hasn’t even  _ done _ anything and she’s already weak in the knees.

He gives her a little shove in the right direction. She waddles a few steps forward. Evidently satisfied, she hears sand crunch under his boots as he resumes his lonely circuit. 

There’s an odd sort of frustration that wells within her. What he says makes perfect sense. It’s the most practical way to go about this. Whenever Urianger gets up to take his watch, Thancred can just slip into a warm bedroll and nod off while the taller man takes his shift.

But she can’t stand it.

Whether it’s because of the way she was raised, or who she is, or the fact that ‘tomorrow’ was supposed to be twelve days (a month?) ago, or just because she’s sick of always being the one caught wrong-footed - 

She turns back around. 

He stops in his tracks and looks over his shoulder. She frees her hands from their confines, rucks up the blanket so it doesn’t drag on the ground and swallows her pride.

“We share.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She slowly walks back over to him. “We can share.”

He stares. 

She’s well aware there’s no way to do this without permanently crossing a line. There’s no falling back on vague excuses of drunken excess anymore. They haven’t had any time to talk about it yet - she’s still not sure what he wants - but damn it, she’s so  _ tired _ of waiting for something to  _ happen _ . 

He watches her as she draws closer. He watches her as she shakes out all his hard work. He watches her as she throws the blanket over one arm and tugs on his coat sleeve.

“I’m not going to let you freeze out here alone,” she murmurs. “Come here.”

Slowly, he rotates towards her and bends down. She can’t disguise the hitch in her breath as she lays the end of the blanket behind his neck. She steps closer and pulls it halfway towards her, letting the bulk of it fall across his back. Then she wraps the long ends around herself and steps in close. 

Her heart beats half out her chest. She’s never been this far into his personal space before. She hesitantly lays a palm flat against his cold body armor; Gods, she can tell just from the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes that he’s every bit as well built as her impromptu voyeurism yesterday suggested, and she isn’t quite sure what to do with that information. Thancred’s warm breath puffs against her hair. His face is so close she can’t even see his eyes, only his jaw and the stubble on his chin. 

“Is this alright?” she whispers.

He curls one arm carefully around her shoulders underneath the blanket. He threads the other hand into her hair; chilled fingers brush the back of her neck as he does. She shivers again. 

“Is this alright?” he echoes.

“Yeah.” 

For a few moments, they do nothing but breathe. 

“So, uh…” 

“Yes?”

“... I hadn’t thought any further than this part.”

She can feel him grin against her scalp. “Got ahead of yourself, did you?”

“I’m just making this up as I go along, okay?”

“Right then,” he teases, speaking slowly as if to a child, “had you planned to stand up all night?”

The flush returns to her cheeks full force. 

“... maybe we should sit down.”

“Capital idea.”

“Oh shut up,” she whines, thoroughly embarrassed. He chuckles into her hair. Then he slips his arms away from her and tugs one end of the blanket out of her grip, lacing his fingers between hers instead. He pulls away a bit, looks around, and kneels.

His silver hair shines in the moonlight. His hand is still in hers. Butterflies erupt in her stomach. He tilts his head, smiles, and tugs gently on her hand.

“Come here.”

She takes a deep breath and kneels with him. 

It takes a bit of adjusting, but soon enough she’s curled up in his lap, sitting sideways to be sure the spikes at the base of her tail don’t poke him at an odd angle, leaning the flat of her right horn against his clavicle as he wraps them both up again.

“Good enough?” 

“Yeah.” She shifts nervously in place. “I’m not too heavy?”

Another smile. “Never.”

She knows a pretty lie when she hears it, but she decides to let this one slide.

“That was bold of you,” he continues, idly stroking her left shoulder underneath the blanket. Goosebumps rise on her arms. “I usually like to think I can read you. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“That makes two of us.”

“So you’ve said.” She can hear the amusement in his voice. “All this, because you wanted to keep me out of the cold?”

“If that’s what helps you sleep at night.”

He grins, and there’s something new glinting in his eyes. He opens his mouth to reply -

except she opens hers first.

Wide. Very wide. So wide she has to cover her mouth as she yawns.

“Speaking of…” he begins, as her eyes squeeze shut and her jaw opens even wider.

“Um,” she manages sheepishly after she finishes.

“I think we can resume this discussion after - “

“I don’t want to go.”

“ - you get some shut eye.” He raises an eyebrow. “But far be it from me to force you.”

“I do need to sleep,” she confesses. 

It’s true. She can feel the dry grit of true exhaustion aching behind her eyes. She’s been consuming her own aether to fight in this wasteland, and she needs time and rest to recuperate before the next encounter. 

But by the Twelve - she  _ refuses  _ to lose this moment. 

She’s waited so long and given up so much. Always putting someone else’s needs above herself. Always putting the greater good above herself. Always pushing herself to the brink for some objective or another. 

Not tonight. 

She musters the last of her courage and settles her left hand over his heart.

“Here?”

He stops moving.

For a full ten seconds he does nothing but look at her. Zoeya starts to curl in on herself, to wonder - 

“Alright.”

“Alright?” she repeats, unsure if she can trust what she’s hearing.

Then he reaches up, guides her face gently into his collar, and rests his chin against her hair. 

For a long time it’s just the moon, the stars, and the two of them. Zoeya closes her eyes. Her heart rate slows. Her mind drifts. A familiar ease fills her body as she relaxes into him. Her nose might be numb, but her heart is full, and his arms are strong and warm around her. She doesn’t know if she could ever ask for anything more. 

His voice… he’s speaking.

“Did you have to give it two heads?”

She blinks slowly.

“Hmm?” 

“Leviathan,” he repeats quietly into her horn. “Did you have to give it two heads?”

“Mmmm.”

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you would refrain from doing the same with Titan.”

“Wasn’t… a conscious choice, really…” she mutters lazily as she nuzzles into his neck.

He chuckles deep in his chest. “What, like your decision to fall asleep standing up?”

“Mmhmm...”

He sighs in exasperation. “What am I going to do with you?”

But his tone is soft, and fond, and warmer than his words; and her eyelids are so heavy, and her limbs are so heavy, and if she could just…

“Rest,” he murmurs into her hair. “I’ve got you.”

So she does.


	6. Faith

“Zoeya.”

Her name echoes into her consciousness like a stone casting ripples in a pond.

“Zoeya.”

There’s a firm hand gripping her shoulder. She can feel a huff of warm breath against her horn. She exhales and burrows drowsily into the heat radiating from somewhere beneath her cheek.

“Zoeya,” the voice tries again, gentleness edged with weary annoyance. “Zoeya, come on my -”

The voice stops suddenly. Something expands beneath her as he takes a deep breath. 

“Zoeya.” He shakes her shoulder twice. “It’s time to get up.”

There are other sounds going on around her; things shuffling, the zip of a drawstring being loosed, Ryne humming a foreign tune under her breath, the weight of a pack dropping to the ground somewhere close by. 

“I’m up,” she grumbles into his neck. “I’m up.”

“Really.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Prove it.”

She slowly lifts her head and blinks with bleary eyes until his face comes into focus. The sky has just barely changed from black to blue; whatever time it is, it’s early. Thancred smiles.

“Good morning.”

Zoeya rubs her face with one hand. “Time ‘s it?”

“Dawn.”

She groans and pulls a stray curl away from her mouth. 

“The others are up and about already. I thought I should give you time to collect yourself.”

“Figures,” she mumbles. “You stayed out here with me all night?”

“I attempted to take you back to your tent, actually.”

“...You did?”

“You don’t remember?”

She shakes her head and yawns. The look he gives her is thoroughly unamused.

“I hadn’t realized you are, in fact, a woman-shaped limpet. More fool me.”

She blinks sluggishly and tilts her head. “Did you just… call me a _barnacle?”_

He heaves a begrudging, long suffering sigh that sparks a pleasant tingly feeling in her chest; she laughs under her breath, and before she is awake enough to second-guess herself, she leans forward and presses her lips to his cheek.

He stills. She pulls away slowly and meets his gaze, too sleepy to bother masking the fondness in her own. 

“Thank you,” she adds quietly.

For a moment, he looks almost shell-shocked. She smiles. Thancred briefly turns away and hides his eyes behind his hair; his throat bobs as he swallows. Then he glides the hand on her shoulder down her arm to where her own rests tucked against his chest. He squeezes her fingers once and looks up again.

“Anytime.”

And if the way that one word steals her breath is any indication, she thinks he might mean it.

*~*

The morning becomes an exercise in stolen glances.

Zoeya peeks at him across the camp while he snacks on his breakfast of trail rations. She feels his eyes on her as she does her morning stretches. She watches him out of the corner of her eye while he goes over the day’s itinerary with Ryne; he looks up, and she nearly jumps out of her skin. 

(That earns her a self-satisfied smirk over the girl’s head, which she returns with a roll of her eyes.)

She can’t stop smiling. At her boots, at her grimoire, at Garuda-Egi after she wills it into being, at Urianger as he approaches from her left after she walks away from camp to put the summon through its paces. Yet, underneath it all, there is a whisper circling in the back of her mind; a sharp-edged, poisonous thing that reminds her of long nights and long years alone.

Zoeya intentionally shuts it away. They don’t have time for this. 

“Hast thou finished thy preparations for thine encounter with Titan?” Urianger inquires as the summon swoops and dives before settling on her shoulder.

She reaches up and scratches underneath the bird’s aetherial beak. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, I think.” 

“Thou art in high spirits this morn,” he observes. There’s a twinkle in his eye. “I trust thine accomodations were to thy liking?”

Zoeya’s easy posture becomes rigid. The spikes on her tail bristle. Urianger raises a single hand in supplication.

“Mine apologies, friend. I meant no ill will. I simply chanced upon a most heartening sight in the deepest hours of yon gentle night.” He smiles. “Truly, I rejoice that thou hast found what many in this perilous life we lead do not.”

Stunned, Zoeya’s posture relaxes, little by little. “I would ask you how you know, but…” she rubs the back of her neck. “There’s no explaining that away, is there?”

Urianger tilts his head curiously. She shifts uncomfortably in place.

There’s an odd sense of relief in knowing someone else knows. She hadn’t realized hiding her feelings was wearing on her so much until the weight of secrecy lifted from her shoulders. More than that, something about her friend’s steady golden gaze makes her feel... raw. Exposed. Like he knows something important that she doesn’t. 

That whispering surges to the forefront, and suddenly it’s toxicity is spilling out of her mouth and over her lips.

“He doesn’t know. I mean, he kind of knows, I told him, but… not all of it.” She swallows thickly. “I’m not even sure exactly what he wants, or if it’s the same as what I want. There just never seems to be enough time, or the right time, for us to talk about it. I don’t want to push him. I know I’m lucky he even cares about me. I know I can’t… “ she sighs heavily and runs a hand over her hair. Garuda-Egi chirps and launches into the air, soaring in lazy circles. She watches. It’s easier than looking her friend in the eye.

“... I know I can’t replace her.” 

Urianger remains silent.

“I’m just lucky last night worked out at all. I could have sent him running for the hills. Or, the dunes, I guess.” She laughs derisively at herself. 

Urianger doesn’t. 

Instead, his expression shifts to a knowing melancholy.

“If I may ask a boon of thee, ‘ere we again find our journey’s paths diverge?”

She nods, throat tight. He gently cups her smaller hands in both of his.

“Have faith. I lacked the courage to walk the path in such time as it was offered me; and only whence the gate was forever shut did I comprehend the cost of mine cowardice, to both me and mine.”

“Oh, Urianger -” she begins, but he simply shakes his head with a smile.

“I know not where thine own path may lead. Yet still, I would entreat thee to tread in its mysteries, lest thou feel as I do until the end of thy days.” He squeezes her hands, once, twice. “Have faith, in both thee and thine. Have faith, and all will be well.”

“You’re hardly ancient, Urianger,” she teases halfheartedly as tears spring to her eyes. She gives him a watery smile. “Maybe you should take your own advice.”

“Perchance I may, if the Spinner sees fit to smile upon one such as I a second time.”

Zoeya remembers Moenbryda. She remembers her quick wit and sharp mind, her keen curiosity and vivid imagination, her stalwart soul and heart-rending sacrifice; she remembers Urianger’s grief, his tortured silences steeped in bitterest regret. She remembers how just yesterday he spoke of the love of his life with a smile, calling her ‘ a dear friend’ as he passed the principles of the discipline she pioneered on to the next generation.

Zoeya throws her arms around his waist and buries her face in his robe.

*~*

Good news: Titan did not have two heads.

Bad news: Zoeya feels like she’s been stomped on by an entire company of magitek vanguards instead. She must look like it too, because the first thing Thancred says to her after she materializes back at camp, bruised and bloodied, is - 

“You look like hell.”

She leans on her knees, spits blood on the dirt, and winces at the pain from bending over bruised ribs. “I might’ve just been there.”

He crosses to her in three quick strides and pulls an elixir out of his jacket. She starts to shake her head.

“I won’t hear any objections from you.” He pops the cap, slips an arm under her shoulders, and forces the bottle into her hand. “Drink.”

She lifts the bottle to her mouth and takes a small sip. Multiple lacerations on her face knit closed as she swishes the liquid gingerly around her mouth.

“What did your blasted subconscious do this time? Give the Lord of Crags six arms?”

She swallows. “Wheels.”

“Wheels,” he repeats flatly.

“And treads. And, uh… he could turn his hands into - ”

“Nevermind. I don’t want to know.” He tips the bottle up into her mouth again. 

She’s really not as badly injured as he seems to think - it’s mostly superficial damage, and nothing Selene couldn’t fix with a few Embraces once she switches out her grimoire for her codex - but he’s never _fussed_ over her like this before. She flushes at his proximity as if she hadn’t just spent a night in his arms, and her heart pounds double-time in her chest. She nearly pushes him away and tells him to save his potions; but then, her conversation with Urianger that morning comes to mind. 

Maybe she’ll let him spoil her. Just this once.

“Ryne?”

“With Urianger.” She takes another swig. Her chest doesn’t ache when she exhales anymore. “He wanted to take another look at her. Something about not liking her aether.”

He sighs in resignation. Then he traces a path over her hair, hooks a stray curl with his thumb and tucks it behind her left horn.

Zoeya freezes on the spot.

Maybe he doesn’t know. He’s not acting like he’s doing it on purpose. But touching someone else’s horns without asking... 

It’s a very intimate gesture. Something any Au Ra would reserve only for family, or for lovers. Not even the most intimate of friends touch each other like this without warning. More than that, his fingers already seem to know where they’re going without any conscious intent. It’s in the way he moves, the subtlety of his touch, the practiced way his fingertips skim the blade edge of her horn and press behind it for a split second -

“You’ve done this before?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “When are we not waiting on Urianger?”

“Uh, well, okay, point taken, but - “

Then their two missing companions materialize at the aetheryte shard, and her opportunity to press him falls by the wayside when Ryne falls to her knees.

*~*

“Do you want to drive, or should I?”

“Nice try.” Zoeya shakes her head. “Go pack up. I’ll meet you at the skyslipper.”

“But I’ve been watching Thancred - “

“No dice, kid. Get going.”

“You heard her.” He saunters up next to her and crosses his arms. “Grab Zoeya’s things too while you’re in there. I’ll make sure she’s familiar with the controls.”

The girl pouts, but she does as she’s told. 

There’s a tightness rising in her throat as they climb the newly manifested hill to where Thancred parked the skyslipper yesterday. Zoeya swallows against it and sets her jaw. It doesn’t matter that she’s only seen him for forty-eight hours. It doesn’t matter what she wants. Ryne’s welfare is at stake. The foreign girl’s welfare is at stake. Someone has to stay with the girl, and someone has to take care of Ryne. Someone has to alert the team at Mord Souq that they’re in need of medical transport, and Ryne needs to rest and rebalance her aether. Leaving is the right thing to do.

It doesn’t keep her selfish heart from aching.

He taps the hood of the vehicle twice as he circles round it to the driver’s side and opens the door. 

“After you.”

She slides in underneath his arm. He leans over the door and begins pointing at different indicators on the dashboard.

“Alright, a basic primer for what you’re looking at. You might recognize some of it. This gauge here -”

“Is the fuel.”

“Yes. And this - “

“Velocity?”

He gives her an assessing look. She offers him a bashful smile.

“Any chance they pulled the dash straight out of a suit of magitek armor and stuck it in the skyslipper?”

He shakes his head wryly. “The other way ‘round, more like. The Mean salvaged this from the depths of the Crystal Tower. It wouldn’t surprise me if Garlemald excavated similar machines at other Allagan sites on the Source.”

“Ah, the ubiquity of Garlean intellectual property theft.” She ties up her hair and leans back in the seat. “Anything else I should know?”

“Make Ryne stay in Mord Souq at least a full twenty-four hours. I don’t want her rushing back here on our account. Neither of us were expending aether the way you two were - we’ll be fine for another couple of days.”

“Got it.”

“We can’t be out here longer than another three or four days anyroad. I fully expect to rendezvous back at the Crystarium by the end of the week.”

“Should I call Y’shtola and Alphinaud? Have everyone meet at the Crystal Tower?”

Thancred hesitates. “I think you should wait on that.”

“Sure. I can head back to the Source until you’re ready.”

He leans his forearms on the door and puts himself at her eye level. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he drawls, the timbre of his voice melting into something that sends shivers down her spine, “I’d like to take you out.”

Her heart stops. 

He - is he really - 

No. 

This can’t be real. It can’t be. Is this...

Courting? 

Real, honest to gods _courting_?

Thancred doesn’t _do_ courting. Not once that she’s ever heard of. He’s not - he doesn’t - 

He’s still waiting.

 _Breathe, Zoeya!_ she scolds internally as her heart flutters back to life.

“If - if you really want to, I mean - “

“I do.”

“Really?” she responds, dumbfounded.

“Unless you have any objections?”

A muscle in his jaw clenches despite his flirtatious tone. There are tiny worry lines etched between his brows. He doesn’t move. His gaze never leaves hers. 

He’s actually concerned about her answer, she realizes; and suddenly she can’t fight the giddy smile pulling slowly across her lips.

_Have faith._

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes,” she affirms, breathless. “I think… I think I’d like that.”

He grins back at her, eyes alight with a heady mix of relief and victory, and suddenly she has to actively fight the overwhelming urge to sink her fingers into his hair. She grips the steering wheel tight instead.

“Saturday. Four o’clock. Lakeland, outside the Ascensor Gate.” 

“Lakeland?”

“Trust me,” he smirks, gently slipping the fingers of her left hand off the wheel and curling his own under her palm. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Then he watches her from underneath his lashes as he presses her knuckles to his lips.

 _Fu - “_ ck.”

He raises both eyebrows.

“Oh, shit,” she curses again, “sorry, I - “

He lowers her hand, smirk widening into a grin so lasviscious and smug she’s half tempted to smack him. 

“Please, do go on.” 

He lifts her hand to his mouth again, turns it palm up to expose her wrist just so - 

Urianger clears his throat. Loudly.

Zoeya snatches her hand back and nearly collapses over the steering wheel as Thancred stands up and straightens his posture.

“Damn it, Urianger,” she gasps, clutching her hand to her chest. “You could have said something.”

“Verily, I did attempt to announce mine humble presence through use of speech. Thou and thine wert… otherwise occupied. Therefore, I deemed the use of more strident vocal cues a necessity.”

“Yes, thanks for that,” Thancred grumbles. “I assume Ryne is almost done?”

“I felt it prudent to give thee adequate warning, particularly as thou art poorly equipped to encounter the Lord of the Inferno at this juncture.”

Confused, Zoeya looks up. Urianger’s face is placid. Thancred’s is thunderous. 

“I’m _definitely_ not summoning any more primals today, let alone fighting them,” she insists vehemently, trying in vain to diffuse whatever silent exchange is literally going on over her head.

“Then all is well,” the astrologian replies pleasantly. Thancred looks ready to commit murder.

“I’m ready!” Ryne calls as she trudges up the hill to the skyslipper. 

“Are you sure you didn’t forget anything?” Zoeya asks over her shoulder once the girl makes it to the vehicle and tosses their packs in the back seat. “We don’t have enough fuel to turn around for your hairbrush.”

“Yes, it’s all here!” Ryne chirps as she clambers into the front beside Zoeya. 

“It seems this is farewell, my friends,” Urianger adds as he squeezes Ryne’s shoulder with one hand. “Mind thy manners, child.”

“I will.”

“Don’t forget your heading.” Thancred crosses his arms. “If all else fails, you can always guide Zoeya back here - I’d much rather you were stranded here with us than out there alone.” 

“Don’t worry,” she intones solemnly. “I’ll keep Zoeya safe, no matter what.”

His expression eases into a fond smile as he ruffles her hair. Ryne beams.

There is still so much unsaid hanging in the air. She likes this situation as little as he does, but for now…

Zoeya starts the ignition. “Don’t forget.”

That earns her a secretive grin. “Don’t be late.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she replies, smile wide and heart singing. “I’ll be waiting.”

*~*

About twenty minutes into the journey back it finally hits her.

“Gods damn it, Urianger,” she hisses under breath as her entire face catches fire.

“What was that?” Ryne asks.

“Nothing.”

It’s a very, very long drive back to the Derrick.


	7. Anticipation

Zoeya decides to prepare using the tried and true method of scholars the world over: research. After carrying out her responsibilities in Mord Souq, she promptly teleports back to Mor Dhona and goes straight to the one person she knows with the connections to find any information in the world.

“Tataru?”

“Oh hello dear. What brings you back so early?”

“I have a date,” she blurts out.

“A date? I hadn’t realized you could predict the convergence of the timelines already,” the secretary mumbles as she hauls an oversized agenda out of her drawer and flips to a blank page, “but having a goal in mind is wonderful! How long – “

“No, Tataru,” she repeats. “ _ I have a date. _ ”

Tataru drops her quill.

“Who?!”

“Shhh! keep your voice down!”

“Sorry,” Tataru shout-whispers, “ _ who are you seeing _ ?”

“… a man.”

“Well, that’s a relief. You and Y’shtola would be a terrible match.”

Zoeya stares.

“Well, it’s why you came to me, isn’t it? Needed to gather a bit of intel on your paramour before starting a workplace romance?”

Zoeya blanches. Tataru pats her hand.

“Don’t worry so much my dear. Urianger is a perfect gentleman. I’m sure you two will get on splendidly.” She sighed dreamily. “Oh, what wonderful news!”

Zoeya simply stands, dumbfounded, as the Lalafell hops down from her stool, rummages around in a back room and returns dragging a crate full of romance novels and advice column cutouts.

“I think I recognize some of these,” she notes wryly.

“Not that I have any experience to speak of,” Tataru prattles on, “but I’ve been saving the advice of the experts for years. You’re welcome to anything you might find useful. Though I would steer clear of Madame Romance,” she warns. “Her columns are positively filthy.”

“Then why did you keep them?”

“For my own education, of course. Now, Urianger’s generally a reclusive sort, but I’m sure with a little rouge you could knock him off his feet. Perhaps a dress? Ooh, In black! And I heard from a reliable source that the tips of Elezen ears are  _ quite _ sensitive – “

“Thank you Tataru,” she interjects hastily, “I think I can handle it from here.” Then she grabs a cloth napkin from the bar and throws it over the top of Tataru’s indecent hoard.

“Let me know how it goes!” Tataru burbles excitedly as she picks up the crate and teleports back to the Crystarium. “I expect a full report!”

*~*

Zoeya carries her scandalous haul directly to her room in the Pendants, where she proceeds to absorb reams and reams of drivel on how to win over the person of your choice based on their star sign, patron god, favorite color and fucking  _ armor preferences _ before she gives up and kicks the whole lot into a corner by her bed. She reads several novels, notices the storylines seem uncomfortably similar (there really aren’t that many Ishgardian noblemen with piercing blue eyes and hair black as night) and skims the rest. In the name of comprehensiveness she even peruses Madame Romance’s columns.

Tataru is right. They’re both filthy and  _ extraordinarily _ educational. The objective side of her is astounded at the variety and nuance of sex acts possible in the world. The subjective is tortured with particularly vivid and seductive daydreams for the next three days.

Only Tataru’s offhand advice about her attire actually sounds reasonable.

“Black, huh.”

Zoeya stands in front of her glamour dresser, looking in the mirror and holding an old caster’s top up to her chest. It’s something Cait Sith brought her when they were scavenging the ruins of Mhach for clues on the Void Ark all those years ago. She’d folded it nicely, placed it carefully in her drawer, and completely forgotten about its existence. If not for her search for anything and everything black, it might have stayed there. And it would have been a damn shame.

The bodice is boned, built both to protect its wearer and provide shaping and support. Exquisite golden details across the sleeves and chest remind her of shooting stars in the night sky. White fur trims both the bell sleeves and the top’s hood. A single polished emerald set in a golden star hangs on a leather strap, settling demurely over her cleavage. The gem sparkles in the sunlight as she sways back and forth, accentuating the sea green of her eyes.

“Yeah,” she exhales. “This’ll do.”

She feels giddy. Nervous. Scared.

Zoeya carefully hangs the garment on her privacy screen and counts the hours.

*~*

It’s three-thirty in the afternoon on Saturday, and Zoeya is already wearing a new track in a small copse of trees outside the Accensor gate.

She spent half the night tossing and turning, kept awake by a heady mix of nerves and anticipation. Every minute that morning seemed like an hour. Every hour seemed like a day. Her room looks like a gremlin was let loose in it - skirts and pants and tights scattered all over the bed, shoes and boots and sandals littering the floor. Now butterflies riot in her stomach as she paces, leaf litter crunching under her black thigh-high boots.

“Breathe,” she mumbles to herself for the hundredth time. “It’s no big deal. Just  _ breathe _ .”

Which, of course, is easier said than done when you’ve worked yourself into a tizzy in a glorified corset.

She hears the heavy tread of a beast of burden coming down the road from the gate. She pays it no mind until she also hears the characteristic snuffle of an amaro.

Who walks with an amaro in tow? Is it hurt? Where is its rider?

Worried about both bird and passenger, Zoeya leaves the privacy of her hideaway to take a closer look. A man in a white jacket she would know anywhere strolls down the path towards her, whispering sweet nothings and pulling on the reins of a particularly patient amaro as it trudges down the road with a basket strapped to its saddle.

“Thancred,” she sighs, both exasperated and relieved. “What are you doing?”

He looks up. She sees a flash of surprise on his face before it breaks out into one of his most winning smiles.

“Just taking in the scenery with a new lady friend of mine.”

“I see. Back to your old tricks again?”

“Jealous?”

“Only if she has a problem with sharing.” Zoeya carefully approaches the amaro, pats its nose and scratches the sensitive spot behind its ears. “Huh, girl? What do you think? Let me get him off your back for a while?”

The amaro rumbles and leans into her hand. She giggles, digs in under its feathers and coos. When she looks up Thancred is watching her, hand on his hip and shaking his head.

“I would ask how you do that, but I’m afraid I already know the answer.”

“‘It’s a gift’?”

“Something like that.”

Then he’s smiling, and she’s smiling, and all her worries fall away in the face of the tender joy that swells in her chest whenever he is near.

“You’re early.”

“So are you.”

“Couldn’t wait to see me again?” he murmurs, soft and low, as he sidles up next to her.

“Maybe.”

“You look…” he grins, as if indulging in a private joke. “…very pretty, today.”

She looks down and shyly tucks a curl behind her horn. He smiles, circles behind her and tightens a strap on the saddle.

“Why  _ are _ you walking with an amaro?” she queries to change the subject.

“Well I’m transporting particularly delicate cargo. I didn’t want to take the chance of it smashing to pieces in flight until absolutely necessary.”

She looks up at the basket. “What did you bring?”

“That’s for me to know,” he drawls, smooth as butter, “and for you to find out.” He gets up in the saddle and holds out his hand. Zoeya blushes, takes it, and climbs up behind him.

“Comfortable?” he murmurs after she situates herself.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” he answers. “Hold on.”

She hesitates before she gingerly wraps her arms around his waist. Thancred chuckles deep in his chest. He clicks his tongue and pulls on the reins. “Up, girl.”

The amaro launches into the air. Her heart nearly leaps out of her throat. She clutches him tighter as they rise to gliding altitude. Then she leans her cheek on his jacket and smiles like an idiot as Lakeland stretches out beneath them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a friendly reminder that this is the second work in a series! If you haven't read slowly (and then all at once) yet, I would recommend reading at a minimum chapter 6 - Precipice before you continue. :)
> 
> Onward!


	8. Attraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who gets two chapters in one update? You do, that's who. :)

They fly north, past Fort Jobb and Laxan Loft, to a stone gazebo in a small grassy clearing at the end of a broken bridge. Part of the cupola is missing, but the floral landscaping is immaculately maintained, with pale roses on carefully trimmed vines winding up the crumbling stone pillars. Thancred flies the amaro in wide, slow circles before they touch down to a heavy  _ thump _ and the rattle of porcelain at her back.

“What is this place?” she breathes.

“They call it Inviolate Witness.” He squeezes one of her hands. She takes the hint and releases him.

“I had no idea this even existed.”

“Likely because it’s impossible to reach unless you’re in flight. It’s not exactly well-known either, except to the Hortatorium.” He dismounts and holds out his hand again. She takes it and slides off the saddle.

“Why the ominous name?”

“I don’t rightly know. Probably something tragic involving the fall of the elves.”

She hums. “Maybe I’ll ask around at the Cabinet when we get back.” Her fingers itch for her missing botany notebook and pencil. She’ll just have to catalogue the flora some other time.

“It occurs to me,” he begins casually as he pulls a checkered cloth out of the amaro’s saddlebag, “that we’ve been going about this courtship completely out of order.”

She cocks her head at him.

“Rather, we’ve been working backwards.” 

“This sounds like a setup,” she grumbles.

“Traditionally,” he continues blithely as he buckles the bag shut again, “there’s a formal declaration of intent and acceptance of pursuit first.”

“Pretty sure I covered that.”

“Then there is food, and music, and dancing, and… well, whatever else strikes one’s fancy that can be done in public.”

“Uh huh,” she adds noncommittally. Thancred unlatches the basket from the saddle and passes it to her. It’s surprisingly heavy in her hands. She follows him at a leisurely stroll to the stone table under the ancient gazebo.

“Followed by flirting, and more wine, and dancing, and more wine - ”

“I’m surprised you remember any of this if so much alcohol is involved,” she snarks.

“ - at which point the two individuals involved may choose to go somewhere private for… more intimate pursuits. Such as, for instance,” he spreads the cloth across the table with a practiced flourish, “up to one’s room.”

Zoeya can feel the flush building in her cheeks. There’s a smirk waiting on his lips.

“Which may, sometimes, involve...”

He circles behind her and drops his voice low.

“… sleeping together.”

“Oh, come on, we haven’t – “

“Haven’t we?”

Zoeya opens her mouth to protest but no sound comes out. The flush in her cheeks starts moving down her throat. He leans against her back, bracketing her body with his arms as he braces his palms on the tabletop.

“As I recall,” he continues, tone lazy and carefree, “it was all your idea - ”

“That’s not – alright, okay, I guess, but not like – “

“ – and you thanked me with a kiss in the morning.”

She drops the basket. The tell-tale clatter of glass on stone follows.

“Careful,” he tuts. “Wouldn’t want to lose the wine.”

Zoeya covers her face with her hands. “Remind me why I said yes again?”

“I presume because you’ve grown fond of me.”

“Right. That.”

Thancred chuckles and reaches around her to open the basket. He carefully maneuvers around her body as he arranges three covered dishes on the table. His chest shifts against her shoulders. His abdomen is pressed up against her spine.

Zoeya peeks at him between her fingers.

In every tawdry novel Tataru has ever lent her, this is the part where the hero is overcome with knowledge of their desire; the part where they can’t stand platonic proximity anymore and pull the object of their affections into a passionate embrace. But this… doesn’t feel like that. It feels safe. Natural. As if they always should have been like this.

Zoeya starts to wonder if any of the research she did is going to be useful.

“Gil for your thoughts?” Thancred murmurs behind her horn as he pulls two wine bottles out of the bottom of the basket.

Alright.  _ That _ is decidedly not platonic.

“How much did you think I was going to drink?” she sasses, trying in vain to counteract the tingly sensation spreading from where his lips just grazed her scales.

“I didn’t.” He retrieves a final jar of spring water. “I simply thought it might be best to offer a selection.”

Zoeya slowly lowers her hands from her cheeks. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Didn’t you choose anything for yourself?”

“I’d be glad to share whichever vintage you prefer.”

Curious, Zoeya turns enough in his arms to get a good look at his face.

“…Even if it’s not a vintage at all?”

“Even so.”

“Really?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I’ll have you know no less than three Sharlayan governesses instructed me in the fine art of good manners after Louisoix plucked me off the streets.”

“Three? What happened to the first two?”

“Live roaches in their desks. Dead rats in their satchels.”

“You mean you were a little shit.”

“I like to think of it as an exchange,” he muses. “They taught me how to speak without swearing in thieves’ cant. I left them with a healthy appreciation for situational awareness.”

She laughs despite herself. His lips curve into a self-satisfied grin. They look soft. Inviting.

Suddenly her heart begins to pound. The air between them is stifling. She realizes his lips are close.

Very close.

Zoeya turns back around. She leans into him with forced nonchalance and deliberately lays her palm on his forearm.

“Which would you recommend?” she asks. “I don’t know very much about the wine available on the First.”

He hums idly into her crown. The vibration sends pleasant shivers down her spine and into the tips of her fingers. “I thought you were the culinarian. Haven’t you been working with the Mean?”

“Making high nutrient amaro feed, yeah,” she answers. “It’s not exactly fine dining.”

“You’ve created a feast fit for the Sultana herself, and you’re letting them waste you on  _ amaro feed _ ?”

“Specially commissioned,  _ veterinary _ amaro feed,” she admonishes him with a playful poke in the elbow. He heaves a long-suffering sigh that ruffles her hair. His warm breath against her horns feels much,  _ much _ better than it should.

“To be honest, I don’t either. Being on the run with a child rather prevents one from sampling the finer things in life.”

“So... what? Is this the blind leading the blind now?”

“It’s wine,” he teases back. “Made with grapes. Comes in red and white. That’s good enough for me.”

Zoeya rolls her eyes. She uncovers each dish in turn: a basket of miniature nut bakes, a brace of steaming mushroom skewers, and a charcuterie board of sliced sausage links artfully arranged with various cheeses. “Unless you have red meat stashed away somewhere, we should probably go with the white.”

“White it is.” Then he walks away without a care in the world.

The sudden loss of physical contact leaves her with an odd, squirming feeling in her gut. It’s the kind of feeling that tells her she’s done something wrong without realizing it, or missed some sort of social cue. The strange pressure hovering between them lifts. It’s easier to breathe. Yet somehow, the very lack of his presence generates a sensation in its wake. It’s something akin to an instinct, something primal and long forgotten; something like an imprint on her skin that echoes, whispers  _ come back _ , and  _ stay, _ and  _ more _ .

_It was just a conversation about water and wine._ _There’s nothing more to it,_ she reminds herself as she turns to find him digging around in the amaro’s saddlebag _._ Zoeya inhales deep breaths of fresh air and exhales quietly until the butterflies in her stomach settle again.

He saunters back to the table, gesturing at the bench in front of her with a corkscrew before he removes two glasses from the basket. “Make yourself comfortable, my lady. I’ll handle the rest.”

“My lady?” she quips.

He only smirks at her with that same roguish grin that she’s sure has won many a woman into his bed.

It’s not helping.

For lack of anything better to do she does as she’s told. She watches him enjoy being watched, notices how he adds little flourishes to his movements for the benefit of his audience of one. She leans her head on her hand and doesn’t bother to hide her smile.

“You don’t have to put on a show for me, you know.”

He finishes his generous pour, holds eye contact and places the glass in front of her. “I know.”

And she thought she had pulled herself together, but the utterly brazen confidence in that statement wrecks her composure once more.

“Alright. Say we are working backwards,” she begins, searching in vain for something to even the playing field. “We’ve got the food and the wine. How have you accounted for the dancing?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Getting a little greedy, aren’t we?”

“What, no miniature orchestrion stashed away somewhere?” she counters, sneaking a bite of cheese as he lays out a clean plate in front of her. “I thought everyone had one here.”

“It’s not something that generally survives transport via amaro, no,” he drawls. “Lots of delicate moving parts.”

She affects a crestfallen sigh as she raises her glass. “Maybe next time then.”

“I’m flattered you’re already looking forward to spending more time alone with me,” he returns, his timbre shifting to something dark and velvet. “Perhaps we can make our own music tonight instead.”

Zoeya chokes on her wine. Thancred busts out laughing. Zoeya all but slams her glass on the table and fixes him with a look that could peel paint. It might even have been effective if she wasn’t also hacking up a lung.

“Alright. Fine. I give up. You win,” she wheezes between coughs.

“Are you sure?” he asks with a shit-eating grin. “That was such low quality bait, you could definitely have –“

“No!”

“No dancing, or – “

“No! Just – all of it!”

He laughs again, loud, clear and long. Zoeya smacks him on the arm. It doesn’t phase him one bit.

“I wasn’t aware you were so averse to dancing,” he needles, still grinning like an idiot as he sits down beside her and begins filling his own plate.

“Well, I mean, it’s not – it’s not that I’m  _ not _ fond of it,” she stutters, “just… dancing is kind of… intense.”

“Intense?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she deflects. “Pass the nut bakes?”

He innocently passes her the cupcake-sized pies, that same stupid grin plastered across his face.

She can already tell with her culinarian’s eye that none of this is homemade. Appetizer, entrée, dessert; each finger food has been made from scratch and deliberately selected to complement both its fellows and the atmosphere of a picnic just for two. The quality of the wine, the delicate crystalline glasses, even the tight, smooth weave of the spotless tablecloth…

It’s a catering commission, plain as day. She thinks of the fraying hem of Thancred’s jacket and can’t help but wonder how much all this extravagance cost him.

They eat in companionable silence for a time. She sneaks glances at him when she thinks he won’t notice. He catches her eye the third time and gives her a particularly rakish grin that sends something syrupy and warm curling down her spine. She picks up a nut bake and takes a bite. Her eyes slip closed in bliss as the perfect balance of buttery pastry, baked almonds and golden honey dances on her tongue.

“Good?” he prompts after a few moments.

“Yeah,” she sighs, savoring the sweetness of the aftertaste. “ _ Really _ good.”

He’s smiling at her, forearms propped on the table and chin on his hand. No artifice or performance. Just pride. Contentment. And maybe something else… something softer, something she won’t let herself identify.

“Thancred, all of this, it’s just…” she looks away for a moment, though she can’t help but smile again when she meets his gaze. “…wonderful. More than I ever thought to hope for.”

“Did you really expect so little of me?”

“You know what I meant.” Zoeya sighs and unconsciously mirrors his posture, grinning all the while. “Honestly. Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

There it is. That word of hers. He’s borrowed it again, wrapped it in a tone so low and quiet it makes her pulse skip a beat. She takes another sip of wine and reminds her aching heart that he doesn’t mean it the way she wishes he did.

“All innuendos aside - What is it that bothers you about dancing?”

“Seriously,” she mumbles through her napkin as she waves him off and swallows, “don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried. I’m curious.”

“Aren’t there better things to sate your curiosity?”

“Not at the moment.”

“You’ll think it’s stupid.”

He doesn’t do anything for a beat. Then he shifts to face her straight on. “Try me.”

“I – “ she stops, starts, again. “Alright. Just… promise not to tell anyone?”

“Cross my heart,” he swears solemnly. She cracks a smile despite herself and looks off into the middle distance.

“Before I left Radz-at-Han, I used to dance. Country dances, festival dances. Partner dances. All of my siblings and I did. It was a family thing. Mother used to brag that we got it from her side of the family. That she could start a traveling troupe if the shop ever went under.” Her smile falls. Zoeya worries her napkin between her fingers under the table and looks away. “Then… some things happened. Things that happened because of me.”

He waits. Her words refuse to leave her throat. She stares at the checkered weave of the tablecloth and hears instead the distant click of a shuttlecock on a loom.  _ Warp, weft, warp, weft _ , her mother’s voice warbles,  _ weave me a lover o Spinner, I pray… _

“The shop went under,” she forces out. “My family fell apart. I left Thavnair. And I haven’t danced in public or with anyone else for the past ten years.”

Silence descends.

“You swore off dancing?” he asks quietly.

“Not by design. It was more like the longer I left it, the more I scared I was to start over again. Almost no one in Eorzea dances the way I learned growing up. And when I saw something familiar… I thought of my family. And then I didn’t want to dance anymore.” She swallows against the lump in her throat. “It was just easier to focus on whatever was more important in the moment instead.”

“I’ve seen you move on the battlefield Zoeya. If you can move like that and cast at the same time, you can definitely learn to dance again.”

“Sounds good in theory,” she mumbles as she finishes her wine. “Too bad I’ve missed a decade of practice.”

“No time like the present to start.”

She sets down her glass and cocks her head at him. “I’m sorry?”

He steps out from behind the bench and holds out his hand.

Zoeya stares at it. She stares at him. She stares at it again.

“Come on then,” Thancred says, easy as you please.

“You want me to… dance? Now? With you?”

“Excellent deduction.”

“Didn’t you hear a word I said?”

“All of them. Lucky for you, I’m wearing my best steel toe boots.”

“Even without music?” she adds incredulously.

He beckons to her once more. “We can find our own rhythm.”

Zoeya tentatively laces her fingers with his and rises. He smiles and tugs her to him.

Thancred guides her a few steps away to one of the grassy clearings surrounding the gazebo. “Have you heard of the waltz?”

“It’s Ishgardian, isn’t it?”

“It is. It’s also so simple everyone and their chocobo could do it.”

She giggles involuntarily. He raises an eyebrow. She giggles again.

“It wasn’t that funny.”

“No, but it made me think – um, well. Ishgardians. Like Estinien.”

“The Azure Dragoon?”

She giggles again. “And a chocobo.”

“Right. I see the alcohol is finally taking effect.” He moves her left hand to his right shoulder.

“Oh come on. Tell me you wouldn’t pay to see that.”

He ruefully shakes his head and carefully settles his right palm over her upper spine. “I don’t know if I’ll ever understand how your mind works. Give me your hand.”

“Er…” Zoeya lifts it off his shoulder.

“The other one.”

She blushes. “Sorry.”

“No apologies necessary. I should have specified.” He smiles and twines their fingers, clasping their hands together and raising them to shoulder height. “I’ll lead. Just mirror what I do.”

Thancred steps towards her with his left foot. There’s an awkward pause before Zoeya looks down at her feet and tentatively steps back with her right. He steps to her left with his right boot; she imitates him with her left. Then he closes his left boot to his right, and she mimics the motion. He repeats the sequence, leading with his right foot this time. She follows.

“Congratulations,” he mutters when they come to a stop. “You just learned to waltz.”

She blinks and looks up. “What? Really?”

“Really.”

“… That’s it?”

He chuckles deep in his chest. She can feel the reverberations through his collarbone and into her palm. “There is more, but that’s the basic step.”

“Okay.” She takes a deep breath and steadies her posture. “Now I just have to not look at my feet.”

He nods. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

He moves forward with his left again. Zoeya promptly steps on his toes. She opens her mouth apologize - until she feels a metal cap firm beneath her sole.

“You really weren’t kidding about the boots,” she mutters to their feet. He just grins and takes another step.

One two-three, one two-three, one two-three. The rhythm builds in her bones as they move. She learns to let him turn her as they dance in the grass, to not anticipate his movements but let his body’s momentum guide her instead. She goes from staring at her feet, to checking them every other step, to only once in a while, faster and faster and faster and then –

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs. “Get ready.”

He raises their joined hands and she twirls twice on her toes, free arm close to her chest, coming back to him on the beat and breathless.

“I didn’t teach you that,” he whispers into her right horn as he gradually slows them to a stop.

“No,” she whispers back. “I remembered.”

“Muscle memory.”

“Yeah.”

They started the dance at arm’s length. They end it pressed against each other. She can see the individual stitches on his collar. Can smell the salt on his neck. Feel his five-o-clock shadow scrape her cheek. Hear him pant against her horn.

She wants him.

Here.

Now.

Not a fantasy conjured alone under borrowed sheets. Not a vague idea of what a lover might be. She wants to discover what his skin tastes like, feel his lips on her scales; she wants to bury her hands in his hair, gasp his name into his mouth.

“Zoeya,” he mouths against her hair. It sounds like a prayer. “Zoeya, my – “

“Your?” she answers. Her own heartbeat thunders in her ears.

His chest heaves. “My… friend.”

Friend.

Just a friend.

“I need you to take a step back,” he pleads. There’s no artifice in his voice. Simply quiet desperation. “Before I do something I might regret.”

She stares unseeing into his shoulder. Then she does as he asks, arms falling woodenly by her sides. He steps back and walks away.

Friend.

All of this… for a friend?

No. No, it doesn’t make sense. All the thought, the planning he must have done – and the way he asked her, the way he looked at her when he raised her knuckles to his lips –

But she never asked him.

They never talked about it.

Friends with benefits. Right. That’s a thing.

But just now – he could have –

And she would have. Here, in the open, on the grass. If he asked.

He could have, but he stopped. Called it –

“Something I might regret,” she echoes hollowly.

Alright. Think. Reasons to stop. Was he thinking about her? Or about himself? Or…

… or Minfilia?

Gods above, what does he even  _ want _ ?

All the flirting and the teasing and the dancing. All the hoping, and the dreaming and the yearning -

It’s Amity. It’s motherfucking Amity all over again.

She can’t do this again.

She won’t.

Zoeya lifts her head and turns around.

He is standing under the gazebo, back to her, chugging spring water straight from the jar.

Alright. Not exactly the sight she expected to see, but she squares her shoulders and walks up beside him anyway.

“Can we take a walk?”

He finishes the last gulp and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Pardon?”

“A walk. By the lake.”

He looks at her curiously. She plasters on a smile and pulls her round lanner whistle out of her pocket. “The shore area with all the rock formations. You know it?”

He sets the jar down. “I know it.”

“Good. Meet you there.” She turns curtly, walks to the edge of the broken bridge, and blows the whistle.

“Is everything alri -”

“Fine!” she calls behind her, blinking away tears as her mount materializes from the aether. “Everything is just  _ fine _ .”

Then she gets up in the saddle, takes off and leaves him behind.


	9. Discussion

Thancred is certainly taking his sweet time following her.

In reality, it’s probably only been thirty minutes. But it’s thirty minutes she’s had to pace, and fume, and slowly calm down to the soothing sound of waves lapping against the shore.

Zoeya laughs bitterly at herself and kicks a pebble into the water. She feels like she’s losing her mind. It was certainly mature of her, the way she took off. After he went through so much trouble and expense just for her. After he listened to her. After he held her close.

After he begged her to step away from him.

After he called her his _friend_.

The more she thinks about it outside the heat of the moment, the more stopping made sense. A sad, practical kind of sense. She’s not on a contraceptive of any kind. She doubts he came prepared either. She hadn’t thought to bring her bag of soul crystals with her, so any grass stains would have been painfully obvious to anyone in town on their return. Inviolate Witness is secluded but far from private - literally anyone from could have flown by and caught an eyeful.

Beyond the fact that it has been _ten years_ . Even she knows that inserting tab A into slot B does not a good lover make. Is this what he meant by something he might regret? Jumping into bed with someone who barely knows up from down? Hells, she hasn’t even _kissed_ him yet.

Maybe he doesn’t want her to.

Maybe he wishes she was someone else.

Fit of pique or no, this conversation is long overdue. She can’t keep doing this. She can’t leave her heart in the custody someone who could be content playacting a romance. Either they’re friends… or they’re not.

Zoeya hears wingbeats approaching in the distance. She rubs at her eyes and takes a deep breath. Then she steps out into the open and makes sure he can see her.

*~*

Thancred lands his amaro about thirty paces away from Zoeya on the beach.

They were having such a good day. He knows they were having a good day. Could see it in her eyes, hear it in her laughter, feel it the way she let herself touch and be touched. And that dance – gods, the way her body moved with his; the way she opened a little more for him with every step, until there was nothing left in the world but the two of them. Nothing but her hot breath on his skin.

It took every onze of his fraying restraint not to say it. Not to take advantage. Not to bear her down to the grass beneath their feet, not to impress upon her skin everything he has ever felt. Utterly consumed in the moment, he completely lost his vaunted silver tongue - said whatever would secure his escape without explaining why.

He knows her. He knew something was wrong the moment she said the words _take a walk._

He’d always thought himself clever. He didn’t feel so clever watching her leave.

Thancred dismounts. She approaches him, steps slow and deliberate, hands clasped behind her back.

“Thanks for coming.”

He sees her notice the packed-up basket strapped to the saddle. Something like pain flashes across her face. She takes a deep breath and steps a little closer.

“Walk with me?”

He nods, pats the amaro on the snout, and follows her lead.

They walk. Gravel crunches under their feet. He watches her, admiring the way her hair shines in the setting sunlight. Part of him wonders if this might be the last time he gets to see it.

She bumps her shoulder into his.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

She looks up and offers him a nervous smile.

“You, uh…” she stops and looks away briefly before she swallows. “You still want this?”

He stops in his tracks. She lets out a heavy sigh and crosses her arms across her chest as she looks down.

“No, wait. Don’t answer that. What I really meant, is - “ She pulls her arms in tighter. It makes her seem… small. “What - what is this? For you?”

“What is this?” he echoes.

“Yeah.” She rubs one thumb back and forth over her sleeve. “I just - I don’t know if what you want, and what I want… I don’t know if it’s the same thing.”

He sighs and runs his hands through his hair. “Why would you think that?”

“Because I know why you came up to my room.”

“I distinctly remember being invited.”

She flushes and shifts her weight. “Yeah, I mean – I did. I’m not mad about it. I was just _really_ drunk, and, uh… very focused on one thing. Which I’m pretty sure is _not_ the same one thing you came there for. But then, today happened. And you - “ she makes a helpless, futile gesture. “ - didn’t.”

Ah. He lets his hands fall to his sides.

“I feel like… I feel like I don’t know where I stand with you,” she confesses quietly to his greaves. “I don’t know what you want. From me, from this, from… us. I don’t know what kind of ‘us’ you want.”

“And you?” he murmurs. “What do you want?”

“Too much, probably,” she quips back with a nervous titter. The false quality in her laugh worries him more than anything else in this conversation has.

“Zoeya,” he repeats, more gently this time. “What do you want?”

“I want –“ She looks up and shakes her head. “I want you to answer my question.”

Thancred turns and looks out over the water. He rubs the back of his neck for several long moments while he carefully gathers his thoughts.

“Would explaining what I do not want from you suffice?”

He hears gravel crunching under her feet as she steps closer. “Sure.”

All is silent for a time, save the lapping of the waves against the shore.

“I do not want you to feel… pressured.”

“Pressured?”

“Obligated. Required.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I could never live with myself if you felt obliged to perform simply for my sake.”

“You don’t want it anymore?”

Her tone isn’t accusatory or offended; only cautious.

“It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“Zoeya. I don’t want it if _you_ don’t want it.” Then, belatedly: “ _Any_ of it.”

He hesitantly glances her direction; she considers him intently, expression thoughtful. She rubs her hands back and forth over her arms. He waits.

“It’s been a long time,” she murmurs finally, so quiet he can barely hear. “I can’t tell you if, or when – “

“I know.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“It’s the way things are.”

“No, I mean… it doesn’t bother you?”

“I won’t expire without it, I assure you.”

That earns him an unladylike snort. He grins. Then she tilts her head.

“Is that all you want?” Color rises in her cheeks as she waves one hand in a circle. “Friends with, uh - ”

“No.”

Her eyes widen. He surprises even himself with how decisively he cuts her off, but he holds her gaze, sure and steady.

“No,” he repeats, softer.

“Oh,” she breathes.

Zoeya brings her hands in close to her chest. She glances down at his feet and back up again, as if making sure he hasn’t suddenly changed his mind. She sidles towards him, eyes on the ground, letting her hands fall slowly to her sides as she draws in close. Her slender fingers tentatively brush against his right hand once, twice. The third time he catches them in his own.

Then she smiles. Gods, but he would move mountains for that smile.

“I was wondering if I could ask you something.”

“Anything.”

Zoeya looks away briefly and tucks a curl behind her horn.

“That day outside Amity. You remember?”

He smirks. “I remember.”

She twines their fingers together and turns to face him, peering shyly at him through her lashes as she grasps his jacket lapel with her free hand. She looks down at his chest before she speaks.

“Why didn’t you kiss me?”

He sighs and hangs his head. She looks up again, waiting.

“Because I realized I wanted more.”

“You did?”

“I did.”

Her eyebrows knit together. “So you ran away from me?”

“Not my finest moment, I admit.”

“So…then…” she stops. Swallows. “Today.”

“Today,” he concedes.

“What happened?”

“What happened.” He laughs mirthlessly. “It seems in trying to keep foot out of my mouth, I proceeded instead to swallow it whole.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

She tilts her head. “What were you going to say?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Clearly it does.”

“Zoeya,” he begs. “Please. Just let it be.”

Her eyes soften. “Do I scare you that much?”

Thancred opens his mouth – and closes it.

“I’m starting to think this is an issue with you,” she adds gently.

“I beg your pardon?”

She taps his heart with her index finger. “Avoiding things that matter.”

He huffs. She runs her thumb in patient circles across the back of his hand.

“… you might be onto something.”

She hums quietly in response.

The breeze off the water ruffles his hair. He gingerly settles his free hand on her waist. She flushes but doesn’t pull away, speaking to his body armor instead as she fiddles with the white leather in her grip.

“Please don’t run from me. I thought – “ she stops herself, starts again, weaker. “I thought… I did something wrong.”

His stomach drops. “Zoeya –“

“Did I?” Her voice is steady, but he can feel her body tremble under his hand. “Do something wrong? Push you too far?”

“How could you possibly have – “

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. You just lost her again, and…”

“Lost her?” he repeats, bewildered.

“I’m sorry," she repeats. Her face contorts and voice grows hoarse with the effort not to cry. “I don’t want to be someone else you regret.”

Then he realizes:

Minfilia.

This is about _Minfilia_.

His inability to be honest has had negative consequences beyond what he ever could have imagined, and now she believes herself second to a ghost. A cold wave of bitter shame washes over him.

“Zoeya.”

She glances up, and he can see the raw fear and vulnerability in her eyes.

“You were… you are - ” _Perfect._ He shakes his head and splays his fingers out over her lower back. “You did nothing wrong.”

“Are you sure?”

Gods help him. All of his instincts are telling him to run, but he could never live with himself if he walked away now.

“I…” he stops, reconsiders. “Minfilia was… dear to me.”

“I know,” she whispers.

“No, Zoeya – listen to me. Please.”

She takes a shaky breath and nods, jaw set.

“Do you remember, after we fled to Il Mheg, when you asked me how I wanted it to end?”

She nods again.

“I have had five _years_ , Zoeya. Five years to come to terms with her passing. It likely didn’t help that I harbored false hope for so long… but by the time you arrived, I already knew. I knew what needed to be done.”

“Then, why…?”

He turns his head away. “Because it meant I’d built the past five years of my life on a foundation of sand. Because it meant acknowledging I liberated Ryne from Eulmore in bad faith. Because I still feel responsible for her death, despite the choices that she made.”

He listens to the trees rustling in the wind.

“I said I wanted Ryne to choose without my interference, but it was always her choice as well. She told me as much the only day we spoke. I simply didn’t want to hear it.”

The sun sinks lower on the horizon, bathing the sky in shades of gold. He thought this would be harder. The twinge of loss is still there; he suspects it always will be. But instead of the crushing weight of his guilt and sorrow, he feels lighter the longer he speaks. Stronger.

“I never expected to survive my duel with Ran’jit.”

Zoeya inhales sharply.

“My only objective was to buy you both as much time as possible. I threw everything I had into that battle… then I let her go. And I could do it, because I knew Ryne would be safe in your care. Because I knew you had my back.”

Perhaps that’s it, he thinks, as he looks down at the woman in his arms. Someone to have his back. Someone to share the load.

“Minfilia said something to me, that day in Nabaath Araeng," Zoeya murmurs. "Before she passed on for good.”

She brings their joined hands between them and looks up.

“ ‘Not even the most valiant heroes can stand alone.’ “

“Valiant,” he muses sardonically.

“You wouldn’t call willingly sacrificing your life to protect someone you love valiant?”

He scoffs. She offers him a rueful smile.

“I thought it meant something else, but, well, maybe it applies here too. So…” she squeezes his hand. “I know I’m not her, but… you don’t have to go through all your hardships alone. You can always lean on me. Anytime.”

“Stop.”

His tone is clipped. Harsh. Her faltering smile falls off her face. She tries to pull her hand away, but he grips it tight.

“Stop saying that about yourself.”

“Stop saying what?” she mutters, looking down and away from him.

“Stop talking about yourself as if you’ll never be enough.”

Her head snaps up.

“Stop pretending you have no value beyond what task you can perform. Stop carving off pieces of yourself to fit what you think I need. You are – “ _Precious_.

“You are not a substitute,” Thancred whispers hoarsely.

Zoeya doesn’t move. Her eyes search his face. The longer she doesn’t find what she’s looking for, the more her own expression fills with disbelief.

“You mean that?”

“Every word. I promise you.”

Her eyes fill with tears. Two escape. She looks down again and lets go of his lapel to wipe at them with the heel of her palm. She shuts her eyes and lets out a single, shuddering exhale. Then she gingerly leans her damp cheek against his chest. He waits, unable to find his own voice.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” she whispers brokenly. “Okay.”

It occurs to him, then, that this position is very… intimate. Vulnerable. Especially for being out in the open. He starts to wonder if they should discreetly separate when she slips her fingers out of his and lays her quivering palm flat against his side.

“Can we stay like this? Just for a little while?”

Carefully, hesitantly, he wraps his right arm around her shoulders. She doesn’t seem to mind. He drops his chin to her crown and cradles her against his chest; she sighs softly and nuzzles in close. He watches the sun glint off the water until he feels her shivers subside.

“There you go,” he mutters after a few minutes more. “Just this once.”

“I hope not.”

The delivery is so deadpan he’s not sure what he’s hearing at first.

“I’m sorry,” he drawls against the edge of her horn, “what was that?”

She shifts her weight. “What was what?”

“I believe I heard you express a certain sentiment.”

“What kind of sentiment?”

“The kind that says you’d like this to happen again.”

He feels her shoulders shrug. “Maybe.”

He leans back. She looks up and bites her lip while she bats her lashes.

“Zoeya Zana.”

She raises an eyebrow at the censure in his tone.

Are you, Hydaelyn’s blessed Champion – “

Her mouth drops open.

“ – Warrior of Light and Darkness, triumphant hero of the First – “

“Stop.”

A mischievous grin pulls across his face.

“ – savior of the downtrodden, slayer and summoner of primals – “

“Oh, gods, you _know_ I hate that – “

He locks his arms behind her back.

“ – vanquisher of Lightwardens and Ascians alike – “

“ – godsdammit, Thancred – “

He only grins wider as she whines and fumes in his arms. He’s particularly fond of the squirming.

“ – are you _flirting_ with me?”

“Yes, you insufferable ass,” she groans, letting her forehead fall with a thunk against his body armor. “I was trying to flirt with you. Happy?”

“Very.”

She lifts her head and blinks. “What – really?”

He laughs at the surprise written all over her face. She wrinkles her nose at him.

“It was the lip bite, wasn’t it.”

“A little much, yes.”

“Yeah, well,” she grumbles under her breath, “it was worth a shot.”

“Where did you even get the idea? Some salacious novel of yours?”

She shyly mutters something into his jacket.

“I’m afraid I didn’t catch that.”

She mumbles again, slightly louder.

“Speak up.”

Zoeya gives him her most scathing look.

“Madame Romance’s advice column in the _Raven_.”

He tries to contain his mirth. Really, he does.

“Don’t laugh at me!” She whacks his seizing chest with the back of her hand as she blushes redder than a tomatl. “I have no idea what I’m doing, but I’m trying, and – “

This woman. This ridiculous, incredible, wonderful, beautiful –

Thancred sinks his fingers into her hair and kisses her.

It’s nothing more than short, quick brushes of their lips at first. He’s still laughing. She fusses when they bump noses or knock teeth. Soon though, her irritation shifts and his laughter dissipates. She smiles and sighs and wraps her arms around his neck. He presses her flush against his body in pursuit of a more primal thrill.

 _Slow,_ he reminds himself as he moves one hand safely to her waist and the waves lap against his boots. _Take it slow._

Gods, but her lips are soft. She responds well to his subtlest movements, adjusting her pressure and pace until they find a slow, steady rhythm. Her moans are quiet. Furtive. Louder, when he tugs on gently on her hair.

“Thancred,” she gasps into his mouth, and his name has never sounded so sweet.

After the second time he brushes the underside of her breast with his thumb he forces himself to break the kiss. She hangs from his neck as if her knees have given out.

“Is that what you were looking for?”

She blinks owlishly at him, lips swollen and eyes glassy.

“Unexpected, but not unwelcome?”

“Uh,” she replies intelligently.

He lifts her by the waist and sets her on her feet. “I’ll take that as an affirmative.”

“I- um.” She sways. “That. Just… _wow_.”

He chuckles and braces her as she catches her balance, never mind the fact his own heart is hammering a malm a minute. “Good.”

 _Gods give me patience_ , he prays silently as she giggles breathlessly and turns her face into his shoulder.

Because if that was just their first kiss, it’s not a matter of if.

Only when.

“Thancred?”

She’s tugging on his lapel now, eyes half-lidded, wearing the widest, most besotted grin he thinks he’s ever seen.

“Kiss me again?”

So he does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, lovelies.


	10. Hesitation

Kissing Thancred is… 

Zoeya has never felt anything like it.

There’s something about him and the way he holds her so carefully, one hand cradling the base of her skull and the other just barely grazing her waist, that speaks of profound disbelief and unfettered yearning all at once. No one has ever held her close like this. Pressed their laughter to her lips like this. Tangled their hands in her hair like this. She hadn’t thought – she’d thought she was alone, that he didn’t –

But he does.

He _does._

She can’t stop smiling. She wants to laugh until her lungs give out, wants to collapse on the beach and put her head in her hands, wants to pull him down with her and ask him a million questions, pepper his answers with inquiries until he gets sick of it –

And then she wants to kiss him again.

She feels like her body could dissolve into effervescent aether at any moment. Short kisses, long kisses, soft and chaste or hard and fervent – Thancred pulls her head back and kisses her like he is making up for lost time and Zoeya has no objections to that sentiment whatsoever. Hells, he could probably kiss her until the end of the world came and went and she’d never notice. She just anchors her fingers into the strands at the nape of his neck and does her level best to keep up.

“Thancred,” she gasps when they finally slow down and come up for air –

And then he is on her once more with a low, quiet moan that turns her knees into water.

Maybe words can wait.

*~*

Zoeya leans her head against his shoulder as they sit on the shore and watch the sunset.

“When did you know?” she wonders aloud, tracing invisible runes on his arm.

“That you carried a torch for me?”

“Mmhmm.”

He chuckles to himself. “Much later than I should have.”

“But before I asked you up to my room.”

“Long before.”

She sits up enough to look him in the eye. “Even before Amity?”

“Gods, no. I was far too self-absorbed for that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Y’shtola knew first.”

“ _Y’shtola_?”

“She told me in no uncertain terms not to - and I quote - ‘fuck it up’.” 

“ _Y’shtola_ said that?” she echoes. “Are we talking about the same person?”

He cracks a smile. “Afraid so. Though I didn’t believe a word she said at the time."

"What in the - how - ... _when_?"

"A few weeks before that day on the cliff. She pulled me away from guard duty while you were sleeping. But as luck would have it," he continues blithely, "you weren’t sleeping that day at all.” 

Zoeya slowly sits back on her heels, mind whirring. Thancred casually rests his forearms on his knees.

“So… that was - when I asked you what she said about me - “

“The truth? Yes.”

She stares. Covers her mouth. Snorts. Snickers. Shivers and shakes and completely gives in to raucous, full-throated laughter.

He grins ruefully. “It does have a touch of the absurd about it, doesn’t it?”

“No, but -” she struggles in vain to compose herself, “ - you don’t understand - “ she breaks down again, stifling unladylike chortling in his shoulder.

“Not quite sure where you’re going with this,” he muses after a few more minutes. “Care to clue me in?”

Zoeya nods as she struggles to regain her composure.

“My friend. Giott. We were - we were drinking, after Vauthry. and I - I was _mooning_ over you, convinced - “ she guestures wildly - “ _this_ \- was impossible, because you couldn’t possibly see me like this, and - and she - she told me I was -” she wheezes, “ - was being a fucking _coward_ \- ”

“ - and should say something,” he finishes for her, shaking his head in rank disbelief. 

“Oh gods,” she wheezes, fighting to catch her breath as she wipes her eyes. “How did we even get this far?”

He laughs then, loud and long. She watches in awe as the last of the sun’s rays play over his smile. He looks like something out of a dream. Relaxed. Content. Happy. 

She leans forward to capture his lips with her own and feels like the luckiest woman in the world.

*~*

Thancred lets her pilot the amaro on the way home. He makes up some excuse about her having a way with the bird, but she knows him better than that now. Her heart sings when he mounts up and settles in the saddle behind her.

“Comfortable?” she asks. “I’m not – um. Poking you? With my horns?”

“Not yet,” he teases. Then he wraps his strong arms around her waist and pulls her close. 

Gods above. She is _so_ in love with this man. Maybe one day she’ll even tell him.

Zoeya clicks her tongue. “Up, girl.”

The amaro snuffles, ambles into a lumbering run, and lurches off the beach into the air. Wingbeats skim over the water before Zoeya gently guides the animal upwards into the starlit sky. Her weight shifts backwards in the saddle as the amaro climbs. Thancred leans forward in response, his chest pressing firm against her back.

She wants nothing more than to go with the flow, to melt into his embrace and savor these final few moments… but there is one more question she still needs an answer for.

“Thancred?” she murmurs after the amaro reaches gliding altitude.

“Yes?”

“Are you okay with landing at the Launch?”

“It is generally where amaro come and go.”

She rolls her eyes even though she knows he can’t see it. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Considering everything we just went through, I’d appreciate it if you’d enlighten me.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.”

She suddenly finds herself nervous again, as if she hadn’t just spent the better part of an hour sticking her tongue down his throat. “There are people. _Lots_ of people - at the Launch.”

Thancred goes quiet.

“Only if you’re ready,” she adds when the silence stretches a beat too long. “You can say no. I can find somewhere else.”

“Somewhere less public,” he clarifies.

“Yeah.”

Thancred props his chin on her horn. He doesn’t say anything for a long, long while. Zoeya takes one hand off the reins to grasp his where they cross over her stomach. She squeezes his fingers once and keeps her eyes on the crystal spire in the distance.

“Let’s go to the Launch.”

“Are you sure?”

He shifts and she feels a fleeting, gentle pressure against the side of her head. “I’m sure.”

When they touch down at the bustling landing strip, several heads turn at their arrival. A Zun handler approaches. She passes them the reins. They give a perfunctory nod and begin tying the animal off at the post. Thancred dismounts. He unstraps the basket from the saddle, sets it on the ground, and offers her his hand. 

No ceremony; no preamble; no hesitation.

She takes it. He smiles.

*~*

They walk together all the way back to the Pendants, conversation easy and light. She’d expected more of a fuss walking through the middle of the Musica Universalis on a Saturday night; but besides a nod from Bragi and a few knowing smiles from the shopkeepers at the stall where he returns the basket, no one else seems to care. It’s reassuring in its own way, knowing not everyone on the First watches her as closely as Alfric does.

If only that reassurance was enough to calm her mounting nerves. Because all she can think about is the foil-wrapped contents of a certain discreet box. A box she discovered in the bottom of a certain borrowed crate. A crate full of certain explicit, _thoroughly_ detailed advice she never honestly believed she’d need.

Until now.

They nod politely at the Master of Suites. Climb three flights of stairs. Walk all the way down the empty hallway to her apartment.

“So,” she begins once they reach their destination, rocking back and forth on her toes.

He nods in acknowledgement. “So.”

“This is it.”

Thancred’s lips tick up at the corners. “Seems like it.”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. She offers him a tremulous smile. “Thank you. For today.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” he responds with one of his heart-stopping smiles. “It was my pleasure.”

“No. Really. I do.” 

Her heart thumps double-time in her chest. Her gut ties itself in knots. She pulls a key out of her pocket. Slips it into the lock. Turns it until the tumblers click. Lays trembling fingers on the door handle. Looks up.

Recognition dawns on his face. She looks back to her hand on the knob. She tries to make it move –

But it won’t.

“Sorry,” she mutters reflexively. She takes a deep breath.

“Zoeya.”

“Just.. just give me a minute.”

“Zoeya,” he says again, insistent.

“I’ll be fine. It’s fine.”

Then he steps forward –

and pulls her hand away.

“Sorry,” she babbles automatically, “ I – I’m sorry, I just –“

“Zoeya,” Thancred breathes. “There is nothing to be sorry for.” He steps in close and murmurs so softly only she can hear. “Knowing you think _this_ much of me… that is all the reward I need.”

She blinks back the sudden impulse to weep. “Really?” 

“Really.”

A weight she didn’t realize she was carrying lifts off her shoulders.

“I meant what I said today, Zoeya,” he reminds her quietly. “There’s no reason to force this.”

“I know. But - earlier. I did. Want to. And - ”

“And now you don’t.”

“It’s – “ she stops. Shakes her head. Rolls her shoulders and worries the hem of her sleeve between her fingers. “It’s not that simple.”

Thancred sighs heavily. He runs his fingers through his hair and rubs the back of his neck. Then he reaches out and tentatively grips her upper arm.

“Zoeya. Do you remember when I told you a kiss should be easy?”

She nods at her feet. 

“Was it?”

She feels a blush rising in her cheeks. “Yeah.”

“Because you knew how much you wanted it.”

The blush creeps down her neck. “Y-Yeah.”

”It’s much the same. Opening _this_ door - that much should be simple.” He trails his fingers down her sleeve and squeezes her hand. “Understand?”

She lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah. I understand.”

He briefly scans the corridor behind her and leans in to whisper against her horn. “Because as much as I _do_ want you…”

Zoeya flushes a completely new shade of scarlet.

“… I don’t want _this_ from you until it is. Or rather, “ he amends, the molten timbre of his voice sending shivers down her spine, “I want you to come to me and _ask_ for it.” 

Coming from literally anyone else, the sheer presumption in that statement would be galling - and he knows it. She doesn’t even need to look at him to know there’s a wicked glint in his eye.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

“What do you think?” he murmurs. “Do we have a deal?” 

“I think you might be trying to kill me.”

She can hear the smirk on his face. “Believe me. You’ll know when I’m trying.”

She thinks of the way his hands fisted in her hair and has absolutely nothing to say to that.

“… Yeah. We have a deal.”

“Good. One more thing.”

She cautiously lifts her head to look at him.

“That column you’ve been reading? Burn it.”

“It’s not mine,” she admits wearily. 

He raises an eyebrow. She shifts her weight. 

“I may have borrowed references from a trusted secondary source,” she mutters. “A source with - uh. Similar lack of practical expertise.”

“The blind leading the blind.”

“...That about sums it up.”

“All the more reason to conveniently lose that drivel in a house fire,” he says flatly.. “You’ll both be better off. Or you can make an anonymous donation to the Hortatorium.”

She looks at him quizzically. “Why?”

“Because at least there they know how to put pure shite to good use.”

Zoeya groans out loud. Thancred grins like a cat in the cream. He raises his eyes to scan the immediate vicinity, fingers still laced with hers. She tentatively tugs on his hand. He turns back around.

“Are…” she swallows. “Are we okay?”

Something in his expression softens.

“‘We’… ” he marvels, rolling the plural around on his tongue. He smiles to himself. “We’re alright. More than alright.”

She exhales and squeezes his hand. “So then… just you and me?”

“Yes,” he murmurs.“For as long as you will have me.”

He looks around the empty corridor one last time. Then he raises his hand as if to fix her collar - 

Cups her jaw, and presses his lips to hers.

It’s not like their kisses at that lake - passionate and joyous and overwhelming all at once. This one is gentle. Lingering. The kind that speaks to care, and tenderness, and volumes left unsaid.

“Goodnight, Zoeya,” he whispers when they part, grinning shamelessly while she blinks slowly with glazed eyes.

“Goodnight,” she mumbles after him as he gradually slips his fingers out of hers and walks away.

*~*

Zoeya floats more than walks into her apartment.

She hangs up her clothing and slips into her nightgown in a distracted haze. Half-brushes her teeth. Forgets to wrap up her hair. Crawls under the covers and settles into her blankets with a dreamy sigh. Then she glances at the chronometer on the wall.

It’s only eight in the evening. 

She laughs at herself and covers her face with her hands. “What am I even _doing_?”

Flirting. Dancing. Kissing. Touching.

Exclusively.

_For as long as you will have me._

Zoeya shoves her face into her pillow and squeals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who might be confused about the conversation on the beach, chapters 5 and 6 of slowly (and then all at once) should be enlightening. :)


	11. Contemplation

Zoeya wakes to someone knocking on her door.

Late morning sunlight streams through the gap in her crystalline shutters. She slowly opens her eyes to find dust motes swirling in the luminescent beams. She can’t remember the last time she slept so late or so well. Fragments of her dreams linger; impressions of safety, and calm, and strong arms wrapped around her while a certain voice whispers her name.

She smiles and nuzzles further into her pillow. It doesn’t have to be just a dream, now.

The knock sounds again – three quick raps with a light hand. A pregnant pause follows. Then there’s the  _ shhff _ of something being slipped underneath her door and heavy steps ambling away.

Zoeya sits up, still groggy, and brushes her loose curls away from her forehead. She pushes her covers back and pads to her door in bare feet. An envelope with the stamp of the Crystarium postal service and no return address lies on the floor. Curious, she tucks her hair behind her horns, picks it up, and cracks the seal as she sits on the bench nearby. A piece of parchment folded into uneven quarters rests inside. She unfolds it and smiles at the familiar jagged handwriting.

_ Z – _

_ Tried to come by earlier. I assume our sparring exercises yesterday wore you out. _

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” she mutters, amused.

_ Last amaro caravan to Ahm Araeng is leaving. Won’t be another for the next sennight. _

Zoeya’s heart leaps into her throat. She jumps up and runs to her dresser, hauling her nightgown over her head with one hand while she yanks open a drawer with the other. Twenty seconds, one breastband and a loose blouse later, she spreads the paper flat on her nightstand while she hops into a pair of socks.

_ Don’t panic and hurry to the Launch. By the time you get this we’ll already be long gone. _

Zoeya stops, one foot on the ground and the other halfway through a pant leg. Her heart plummets into her stomach. Then she places both feet on the floor and continues slowly dressing while she reads.

_ We’ll be setting up a forward base of operations in the Empty. More like than not R and I will be navigating until the engineers have the coordinates down. Won’t be back in Mord Souq for a while. _

The Empty. Where she can’t teleport, fly, or ride a damn chocobo. Zoeya sighs and sits heavily on the edge of her bed.

The next line is unintelligible and black with rubbed out graphite. Whatever he wrote, he obviously thought better of it… several times. She squints and holds the paper up to the light; an impression of the word  _ I’ll, _ the letter  _ m  _ and three entries heavily scratched out bleeds through. Then, in hurried scrawl at the very end:

_ Don’t go getting into trouble while I’m gone. Keep your wits about you. _

_ Stay safe. _

- _ T _

She flips the letter over, hoping for some sort of addendum or post-script. Nothing but blank parchment stares back. Zoeya turns the paper back over and gingerly runs her thumb over the blackened entries. The loops and whorls of her fingerprint glimmer grey in the light.

He’s written the missive as if he expected someone other than her to read it. Lack of faith in the messenger, maybe? Her smile is bittersweet as she rubs her thumb and forefinger together. That’s alright. She can read between the lines.

“You’ll miss me, huh?” she whispers to the page.

Turns out the world doesn’t stop just because Zoeya’s in love.

*~*

Limsa Lominsa is exactly the same as she remembered it.

Her pack feels light as a feather. She smiles at random passerby and puts a little bounce in her step. It feels odd, simply going about her day like nothing happened - as if something in the physical world should have shifted to mirror how she feels inside. The way the sun reflects off the flagstones, maybe. Or the musicality of seabird calls down at the docks.

She moves through her chores with practiced efficiency: checking in at the Maelstrom and giving new orders to her squadron. Stopping by the Bismarck to visit Chef Lynsgath for lunch. Browsing the market board in Hawker’s Alley. Summoning her retainer to gather karakul fleece for yarn she needs to spin.

“Will that be all, my lady?”

Zoeya smiles. “For now. Thank you, Aliona.”

The willowy Ishgardian arcanist bows at the waist and holds out her palm. “Very well. That will be one venture, if you please.”

Zoeya smiles and drops four silver coins into her hand. “Keep the change.”

Aliona straightens and stares briefly at her palm before she shakes her head. “I appreciate the generosity, my lady, but I simply cannot accept – “

“Come on, Aliona. When was the last time you commissioned a new grimoire?”

The Elezen widow hesitates. One hand hovers over the battered and beaten cover of her weapon. “Be that as it may, my lady. This payment is far too much. Please, tell me what other service I might provide, and I promise would more than be happy to render them.”

“How has Jacques been lately?” Zoeya deflects. “Still apprenticed to the blacksmith’s guild?”

Her retainer blinks quickly, but quickly gathers herself. “Yes, my lady. Forgemaster Brithael claims my son is a natural with the hammer. He does seem to enjoy the work.”

And your daughter, Leonie? Is she settling in?”

“Yes, my lady.” The woman’s chest puffs out with pride. “Her tutors at Mealvaan’s Gate have informed me her arithmancy studies are coming along quite well.”

“You don’t need to be so formal with me, you know.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Zoeya shrugs and gives up. Seems some habits ground into you while scraping by in the Brume die hard. “Why don’t you go on a little holiday to Costa del Sol this weekend, just the three of you? Take a break. Make some happy memories. Gods know you deserve it.”

Aliona’s breath catches in her throat. Then she folds into an elegant bow and solemnly inclines her head. “As my lady wishes.”

Zoeya shakes her head and grins at the pleased flush painting the woman’s cheeks. Even if the world hasn’t changed, it’s good to know she can still spread a little joy on her own. She squeezes her retainer’s forearm once and heads back towards the aetheryte plaza.

Then she hears it:

The distant echo of drums.

At first, she’s sure she must be hearing things. It’s not a military cadence - the tone and timbre of the drums is all wrong. These are kettle drums, merrily engaged in an accelerating syncopated rhythm. A rhythm so achingly familiar she could tap it out in her sleep. Curious and full of disbelief, Zoeya stops under the great green awning leading to the Alley.

“… Come one! Come all!” a hawker cries to a throng gathered across the square. “Behold the incomparable skill and beauty of Near Eastern dance!”

Zoeya follows the crowd down to the performance venue in a daze. A beautiful young Mi’qote in traditional scarlet garb dances to the beat. Her heart swells and aches as bittersweet childhood memories long buried rise the surface.

Countless hours of counting out steps.  _ Practice. Practice. Practice _ . Tears, blisters, twisted ankles, and bandages wrapped tight around her feet. The heady victory of a mastered routine; matching her movements to flutes and tambourines. Losing herself in the euphoria of the moment - tossing blunted hoops into the air -  _ jete, emboite, pirouette, entrechat _ -

The spectators are respectful and appreciative, but it’s not the same. They don’t know the traditional call and response, the expected interplay between dancer and audience. She can see the girl’s confidence flag. Watches her nearly drop a chakram as the song draws towards its conclusion. Knows she must feel lost, a stranger in a strange land, making her way the only way she knows how.

Zoeay slips up to the second row, cups her hands around her mouth and calls:

[Dance, sister! Kick those legs up high!]

The girl’s ears perk up immediately at hearing her native tongue. Zoeya claps her hands over her head and swishes her tail to the beat. The spectators next to her look at each other and hesitantly follow her lead. The dancer hops from foot to foot, then kicks one foot high over her head to sounds of shock and awe.

[Dance, sister!] Zoeya calls again. [Drop those hoops down low!]

The girl finally spots her in the crowd and smiles like the sunrise. Then she tosses her chakrams high in the air, pirouettes three times –

And catches them just before they hit the ground.

The crowd erupts into a round of enthusiastic applause. The dancer all but glows. She bows deeply and blows a kiss to the onlookers as the music ends. Musicians from the troupe hold out caps and dishes, which eager Lominsans fill with coin. Zoeya catches the girl’s eye once more. She nods once. Smiles. Turns to melt back into the crowd…

… only to find and impeccably dressed Hyuran woman, lean and lithe, standing in her way.

[Hail and well met, daughter,] the woman greets in Thavnari.

Zoeya blinks, surprised, before she relaxes and inclines her head. [Hail and well met, teacher.]

She does not ask how Zoeya knew her for the girl’s dance mistress; neither does she bow in return. Instead she rakes her eyes over Zoeya from head to toe and cocks her head. [I hadn’t thought to find on of our own here at the edge of the world.]

Zoeya grins. [If you think this is the edge of the world, teacher, I have a ship in the desert to sell you.]

The woman carefully arches one perfectly plucked eyebrow. [You are confident.]

[I speak only from what I have seen, teacher,] Zoeya demurs. [I meant no disrespect.]

The woman paces a slow circle around her, the very embodiment of steel sheathed in velvet and lace. It’s clear the silver streaks in her dark hair haven’t dulled her skills a single whit. If Zoeya were still the timid young girl she was fifteen years ago, she’s sure she would be quaking in her boots.

[There is an understated grace about you. Do you tread the sands?]

[I did, once. A very long time ago.] Zoeya inclines her head once more. [Safe travels, teacher. May Azeyma’s light shine on your steps.] 

She is ten paces away when the woman calls:

[Who are your people, daughter?]

Zoeya hesitates. Wonders if she should lie. It is the traditional way to request someone’s name; there’s no reason to believe this woman would know her family personally. But she’s already pegged her for a former dancer, and considering how often she and her siblings were on the circuit…

[Apologies, teacher,] she finally answers. [You may call me Zoeya.]

The woman smiles despite her strategic sidestep. Her expression is all precision and white teeth.

[And you may call me Madame Nashmeira… Warrior of Light.]

*~*

Yesterday Thancred coaxed her into dancing for the first time in a decade. Today she’s all but press-ganged into an impromptu Kriegstanz exhibition for Master Gegeruju. She can already hear his laughter in her mind.

The gods certainly have a way with dramatic irony.

Her new soulstone sings as she struggles to match Nashmeira’s technical perfection. Sand shifts under her slippered feet. She feels foolish and clumsy, self-conscious and insecure –

But as her body remembers long-forgotten rhythms, the world around her falls away. She loses herself in the music, the movement, the moment; nothing in the world exists but her partner and the beat of the drums.

When Ranaa jumps in and adds her breathless excitement to the performance, Zoeya can’t help but smile.

*~*

Zoeya carefully kicks the door to the Rising Stones closed behind her.

“You’re back!” Tataru chirps.

“I’m back,” Zoeya echoes with an exhausted smile. She blushes and tips her chin at the crate in her arms. “Did you want me to put this uh… ‘research material’ anywhere special?”

Tataru winks at her, hops down from her stool and beckons towards the Solar. “I’ve got just the place.”

She follows Tataru down the hall and takes a left into a large storage closet full of files and parchment. Tataru looks both ways before she hurriedly shuts the door behind them.

“So?!” she shout-whispers. “How did it go?!”

Zoeya hesitates. Tataru flaps her hand at an empty slot in the back of the bottom shelf. She rolls her eyes, grins and carefully slots the crate into place. Then she sits down on a nearby stool and bashfully tucks her curls behind her horns.

“Oh, I know that look,” Her friend teases. “It went well, didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Zoeya mumbles. “It really did.”

Tataru throws her hands up in the air and jumps around in a circle before clasping her hands under her chin. “Oh, I’m so happy for you! Was it romantic? Did he sweep you off your feet and carry you into the sunset?”

“No one actually does that, Tataru,” she answers dryly.

“Humor me. I’ve got to live vicariously through somebody.” Then she winks and touches the tip of her ear. “Did my little ‘tip’ come in handy?”

Zoeya heaves a sigh. “Tataru… about that.”

Her friend’s face falls. “I knew it. That Madam Romance is a fraud. You know what? It’s alright, I’m sure I’ve got a copy of Lady Valentoine’s classic manifesto stuffed away in here somewhere – “

“Tataru – “

“No, really. Please. Let me make it up to you.” She starts throwing her weight against file cabinets and shifting shelves aside.

“Tataru.”

The diminutive woman puts her hands on her hips and rolls her eyes. “I know, I know. I really shouldn’t keep all this in the filing closet at work.”

“ _ Tataru _ ,” Zoeya repeats, thoroughly exasperated. “It’s not Urianger that I’m seeing.”

Tataru stops. Furrows her brow. “I thought you said you were seeing a man? And he was one of us?”

“Last time I checked.”

Tataru cocks her head. Zoeya flushes involuntarily.

“Not that I’ve, you know, actually  _ checked _ , but – um. Yes. All things considered, he’s definitely…” She swallows. “Male.”

Zoeya can practically see the cogs turning between Tataru’s ears.

“Thanks for the help. Really. I appreciate it,” she insists, eager to redirect the conversation to literally anything else. “However, considering the feedback I got on that advice was to lose it in a house fire…”

Zoeya pauses. Chuckles awkwardly. Raises both hands and makes air quotes. Tataru’s eyes widen.

“…I think I’d be better off working things out on my own.”

Tataru’s face is a fascinating thing to watch. It shifts from astonishment, to horror, to confusion and back again before she coughs into the side of her fist and fights to school it into a somewhat neutral expression.

“I know it’s not what you expected. It’s not what anyone expected. Hells,” she chuckles to herself, “it’s not what  _ I _ expected.”

Tataru crosses her arms. She frowns and shifts her weight before she looks away. Zoeya swallows. She stares at her lap and rubs the scales on the back of her left hand. She always knew what his reputation was like. She thought she’d prepared herself for the possibility of a less than stellar reaction, but this…

It hurts. Much more than she could have ever anticipated.

She’s about to get up and leave when little fingers settle gingerly over hers.

“Does he make you happy?”

Zoeya hesitantly glances up into concerned violet eyes. She’s reminded of warm amber ones, aglow in the fading sunset; and strong, calloused fingers carefully laced with her own.

“Yeah.” She smiles, a soft, simple thing. “He really does.”

Tataru heaves a sigh. Then she puts her hands on her hips and furrows her brow.

“Tell him he best have his act together. That I’ll be watching. And if he ever strays, I’ll  _ never _ forgive him.” She points her index finger straight into Zoeya’s face. “Never!”

*~*

Zoeya writes a letter.

Writes several, actually, that she progressively crumples up and tosses in the bin beside her desk before she finally settles on something simple.

_ Dear _ _ est _ _ T, _

_ I’m sorry I wasn’t awake when you came by. I wish you could have stayed longer, but I understand that the caravan couldn’t wait. Give my love to U and R. _

_ But…‘Sparring exercises’? Really? That’s the best you could come up with? I’m pretty new to this, but even I could do better than that. _

_ I’ll be working with the Mean for the next few weeks, so I should be here when you come back. Send me a letter when you get back to Mord Souq. I’ll come see you when I can. Don’t stay out there too long. _

_ L  _ __

_ Sinc _

Zoeya groans and drops her head into her hands. She can’t end it with the ‘L’ word – gods, it’s  _ far _ too early for that. She might just send him running for the hills. ‘Sincerely’? Too formal. ‘Cordially’? No, that one doesn’t sit right either. It’s far too distant, something acquaintances or colleagues on good terms might use. They’ve definitely been more than just friends for moons now. They’re…. they’re…

Gods.

What even  _ are _ they?

Companions? Partners?

…

…

Lovers?

Heat blooms in her cheeks. Alright. Well. Not  _ that _ . Not yet _ ,  _ at any rate. Wishful thinking notwithstanding. 

After what seems like hours of internal debate, her mind eventually circles back to the day before; to the utter euphoria of affections returned, and the way her heart sang at his every touch. To breathless kisses, and laughter, and  _ for as long as you will have me. _

She finally concludes the missive with a single word:

_ Yours, _

_ Z _

_ P.S. You stay safe, too. _

Zoeya laughs at herself. Here she was, all judgmental this morning, and Thancred’s hurried missive turned out positively eloquent in comparison. She seals it in the envelope before she can second-guess herself for the hundredth time. Sticks the letter in her pocket. Runs her finger over the stamp. Sits back, props her feet on the desk and remembers - 

Five years ago. Before the First; before Zenos; before dragons, Syrcus Tower, and the damned Crystal Braves.

She had walked into the Rising Stones to report after a mission, just like any other day. Except of the sanctuary she was accustomed to, however, she found… something else.

The long overdue consequences of a certain rogue’s actions catching up with him. 

No less than  _ five _ different paramours fought over for his affections in front of the bar, arguments growing more heated by the second, as Thancred plastered a pained grin across his face and surreptitiously gestured to her for help.

Yda laughed so hard she bent double and clutched at her sides. Y’shtola hissed a sigh through her teeth and pinched the bridge of her nose. Papalymo shook his head as the Doman girl Higiri covered her mouth and stared, utterly appalled.

The situation escalated. Three of the women came to blows. Thancred dropped all pretense and outright begged for Zoeya’s assistance.

What did she do?

Absolutely nothing.

She rolled her eyes, strolled by, and left him to his own devices without a second glance. Tossed  _ you made your bed, now lie in it _ back at him as she half-waved over her shoulder on her way to a conspicuously innocent-faced Tataru. Shook her head in disgust at the spectacle and thought:

_ I’ll never understand what anyone sees in him. _

Zoeya traces the outline of the envelope one last time. Smiles a little to herself. Reflects on time, and change; and things both lost and found.

Then she ties up her hair, gathers her leatherworker’s gear, locks the door behind her and heads to Thiuna’s little shop down at the Mean.

Precious memories are worth preserving, after all.


	12. Doubt

Life falls into a routine.

Zoeya’s alarm clock startles her awake at quarter to six every morning. She rolls over. Groans out loud. Slaps mindlessly around until she finds a way to end the unholy racket. She sits up, yawns, rubs her eyes, and shuffles over to the kitchen to put the coffee on.

Zoeya shoves a mug underneath the machine’s spout and wanders back over to her desk. She pulls the chain on her lamp, sinks into her chair and lifts the lid on an inlaid applewood box. It’s her favorite part of the morning, that little jolt of anticipation before she pushes past the oversized glove tucked inside, and… yes! She retrieves Thancred’s latest letter and smiles like an idiot while the coffee brews.

His letters arrive sporadically, often in groups of two or three, roughly four to six days apart. Breaks between ventures in and out of the Empty, she knows. Perfectly logical. Reasonable, even.

She’s taken to checking in with the postmoogle daily anyway.

When Thancred first started writing to her, he was all business first and foremost. Progression of construction on the forward operating base (slow, especially when everything has to be done by hand without magic); updates on the strange girl tossed out of the Void (still comatose, but stable); requests for her to throw her weight around a bit to get them more supplies. Always with that same addendum:

_ Be careful. Stay safe. _

Slowly, with only a little prodding, he began easing into writing about the Scions and their exploits on the odd day off instead. Turns out Ryne and Alisaie have been spending most of their free time together running around the desert and generally acting like the teenagers they are for once. He seems both exasperated by their antics and relieved.

_ Ryne never lets me hear the end of it if she knows I’m writing to you,  _ he mentioned once. _ She has strong opinions on what you should or should not know. For instance, she rather vehemently insisted that I was not allowed to tell you how she screamed like a little girl when Alisaie snuck up on her wearing a Gigantender head last night. _

_ Breakfast this morning was delicious. _

Then, of course, once he got good and comfortable, he started making it his personal mission to find new ways to push her buttons. He’s always testing her, teasing her, flirting with her, seeing how much innuendo he can get away with before she figuratively slaps his hand. He keeps getting better at it too.

She can’t say she’s complaining.

The machine sings a little song from her kitchen. She pads over, picks up the half-full mug, stirs in a spoonful of sugar, and fills it with milk to the brim. Then she heads back to her desk, pulls out a fresh sheet of paper, and writes. Sometimes it’s stories about the clients she’s helped down at the Mean, or things she’s seen that remind her of him. Sometimes it’s new dishes she’s tried and raunchy jokes she’s heard from Giott. Sometimes she recounts the mundane details of the day before, like two weeks ago when she complained about her ongoing training with Captain Lyna.

_ Did you know G’raha gave her that soul crystal? Someone on the Source must have entrusted it to him before he came to the First with the tower. She thought it was the only one in existence! You should have seen her face when I pulled mine out of my pocket. _

_ Of course, now she’s forcing me to meet her at the crack of dawn for sparring and target practice every morning _ **_. Everything_ ** _ hurts. All the time. I swear dancing never made me this sore growing up. I’m starting to wonder if picking it up again was worth it. _

_ Is this what it’s like to be you? _

His response to that had been pithy and succinct.

_ I’m flattered someone finally noticed. Or is this your roundabout way of asking for a massage? _

_ In your dreams Waters _ , she’d replied.

_ Good, _ he’d answered in his next missive.  _ Gives me something to look forward to at night. _

She hasn’t quite figured out how to respond to that one yet.

Gods, there are days when she would kill to have those awful romance columns back. Not having any independent sources to fall back on makes her feel… exposed, in a sense. Vulnerable. She meant it when she told Tataru she was going to figure it out on her own - she just hadn’t quite expected it to be this nerve-wracking. She’s  _ certainly _ never been involved in a relationship with such an overwhelming experience differential, and it shows with every increment his flirtations escalate.

She tries to give as good as she gets. She really does. But more often than not, while she’s floundering for a witty comeback or a sassy line, she just wishes she could write of softer things instead. She’s never sure if she should mention just how much she misses his smile, or how often she yearns to run her fingers through his hair. Is it too soon? Would it be too much? He already knows how she feels. Going on about it might just annoy him. No one wants to be with someone who just can’t shut up about…

She half-frowns as she sips on her coffee. Where did that thought come from?

Someday.

She’ll tell him in person. Someday.

But not today.

*~*

The first time she sees the words  _ take a break _ in his scrawl, her stomach erupts into butterflies.

When she knocks on the door of the warehouse in Mord Souq an hour later, he answers it. Her whole body thrills at the sight of him. He props one arm against the doorframe, with a warm smile and eyes full of mischief.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“H-Hi,” she manages eloquently around the heart-shaped lump in her throat.

He leans forward and hovers a breath away.

“Now what brings a beautiful woman like you…” his gaze flicks to her lips and back again, “…to a backwater town like this?”

*~*

Kissing is good. Kissing is  _ very _ good.

Which is good. Because they do a lot of it.

*~*

Some weeks later, Zoeya realizes something:

Thancred doesn’t show her affection in public.

Whenever they’ve got a moment to themselves in private, he’s certainly… ardent enough. His fingers grip her waist, or rake down her back, or fist in her hair while he whispers sweet nothings against her lips. The intensity of his touch varies directly based on the number of people in the building and how secluded their current hiding spot is; and quite frankly, she isn’t ready to find out what the inside of his room looks like just yet.

However, in public, unless she manufactures a reason to ask for his help, he doesn’t lay a finger on her. He seldom makes conversation about subjects more riveting than the weather. He maintains a polite distance in front of the other Scions. He hovers a few paces behind when he walks with her through town. He crosses his arms and finds a nearby wall to prop up when she shops. Occasionally he might offer to carry something if she looks like she’s struggling under its weight.

He pats Ryne’s head. He ruffles Allisaie’s hair. He claps Urianger on the back.

But he hasn’t so much as held her hand in the presence of another soul since that day on the lake.

It bothers her. More than it probably should.

*~*

She starts overanalyzing his letters.

Word choice, syntax, grammar, phrasing – her anxious mind obsessively deconstructs every sentence, searching for evidence of...

… what? Indifference? Or maybe -

“Stop it,” she hisses at herself when she looks up from the parchment and realizes it’s already a bell to midnight. Her oil lamp gutters and burns low. “It’s not the same.  _ He _ is not the same. Stop it, stop it _ , stop it _ \- ”

Long buried memories laugh.

She barely sleeps at all that night.

*~*

The fourth time she visits, after she says her goodbyes to everyone and hoists her pack over her shoulder, he follows her out the door into the street and catches her arm.

“Is something wrong?”

“I’m fine,” she mumbles without looking up from the ground.

“Don’t lie to me.”

Zoeya winces.

“You’re exhausted, and you’ve been preoccupied with the sand beneath your boots all day long.”

“…Is it that obvious?”

“The dark circles  _ are _ rather distinctive,” he snarks with no small amount of censure.

Zoeya sighs heavily and lifts her gaze. His worry is half-lit in the moonlight.

“I’m sorry.”

His brow furrows. “For what?”

“For…” She hesitates. Then she rocks up on her toes and pecks him on the cheek. “For making something out of nothing.”

She settles back down on her heels. His eyes are still dark with doubt. She gently lays her hand over his and squeezes; he takes the hint and loosens his hold.

“You could stay, you know.”

Her breath hitches in her throat.

“You can take the bed,” he continues. “It’s not much, but it’s better than a pallet on the floor. There’s coffee in the cupboard, and - ”

“The bed?” she echoes faintly. “Your… bed?”

Desert crickets chirp in the distance.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” he swears.

Zoeya could swear her cheeks burn hotter than Ifrit’s flames. “I – um. I’m not –“

“That’s not what – “

“Sorry. You – “

“No, no, you – “

“ – go first.”

Thancred rakes one hand across his face and inhales through his nose. Zoeya crosses her arms and suddenly finds a pillbug crawling over the neighbor’s masonry to be utterly riveting.

“That isn’t what I’m asking,” he mutters finally, quiet and low.

She laughs mirthlessly under her breath. “Pretty sure the Captain would hunt me down if I just skipped out on morning target practice without telling her.”

“You’re the bloody  _ Warrior of Darkness _ .”

Her heart twists in her chest. She shifts her pack and murmurs her answer.

“Believe me. I know.”

*~*

His letters come less frequently, after that. They’re shorter. More restrained.

Zoeya tries to excise her guilt and frustration during sparring practice. She ends up flat on her ass instead.

“You are unbalanced. Unfocused,” Lyna notes with disapproval after the third time her blunted chakrams send Zoeya flying in the space of an hour.

“Apologies, Captain.” Zoeya sits up slowly and waits for the ringing in her head to subside. “It’s the learning curve. I’ll do better next round.”

“No. You will not. Not like this.”

Zoeya looks up. Lyna replaces her chakrams on her hips. Then she shakes her head and offers her hand.

“Pardon my saying so, Warrior, but it is clear that there is something on your mind.”

Zoeya sighs in resignation as she takes the assistance. “I’m sorry. It’s a personal matter. I won’t let it happen again.”

“This is true,” Lyna agrees as she pulls her to her feet. “Because we will not train again until you address it.”

Zoeya’s head snaps up. Lyna hesitates. Then she awkwardly pats Zoeya on the shoulder.

“If you have no one to speak to, I am sure the Exarch will listen. You are old friends, yes? He will keep your secrets.”

Zoeya shakes her head. “I appreciate it, Lyna. Really. But  _ I’m _ that person. No one should have to be bothered with my personal nonsense. Especially not the Exarch.”

“Ah. This feeling, I know it well.” Lyna drops her hand and cocks her head. “But perhaps that is part of the problem.”

*~*

Zoeya spends quite a bit of time with her head bowed over a blank sheet of paper that night.

Lyna is not wrong. It’s the same advice she has given her friends numerous times over the years _ : talk to me. Let me help you. You don’t have to do this alone.  _ Just like she’d said to Thancred all those months ago in Twine, when he stubbornly refused to tell Ryne how he felt.

It’s her  _ job _ to carry two worlds on her shoulders. No one should ever have to see her like this. Asking for romantic advice was stressful enough. But this...

No. It’s no one’s job to fix her damage. It’s so mundane, so trivial; ancient history, from long before she knew she had the Echo. Of all the horrors she’s seen and all the pain she’s experienced, for some reason it’s this first wound that haunts her the most. She’s sure there’s irony in that somewhere.

She’s always been able to just cry it out behind closed doors. Put on a brave face and power through it. Push her fears and her ghosts back into their coffins and get on with her life. There’s no reason this should be any different.

Except this time, the ghosts aren’t listening.

“Oh, for gods sake,” she mutters as her vision swims. “I’m such a fucking hypocrite.”

It’s not like anyone has ever asked anyway.

_ You could stay, you know. _

Slowly, Zoeya raises her head.

_ You can take the bed. _

_ That isn’t what I’m asking. _

“Oh,” she breathes.

*~*

The next afternoon she ports to Mord Souq.

Her stomach ties itself in knots as she nods politely at passersby. Thancred shouldn’t be back for another few days, at least, if his former schedule holds. Maybe she can catch Urianger alone. Ask him about what to say over tea. Figure out the best way to approach this. She takes a deep breath and raps her knuckles on the front door to Scion HQ.

There’s a distant clatter. She frowns. Is that coming from… out back? Zoeya knocks again.

“Hello?” she ventures cautiously. “Anyone home?”

The quick patter of approaching feet answers – until Ryne flings the door wide open in a paint-splattered apron.

“Zoeya!” she cries excitedly and grabs her by the hand. “Come and see!”

“See what?” Zoeya protests as she’s dragged bodily past the makeshift meeting room, through the darkened living quarters, past the new bathroom and outside into the desert sun again. She grimaces and shields her blinded eyes with one hand while she waits for her irises to adjust.

“We spent all week setting it up,” the girl bubbles excitedly. “We weren’t expecting you until later – Thancred’s gone out to buy more wood – but it’s mostly finished, and I really think you’ll like it – “

Zoeya blinks slowly, slowly drops her hand and turns in a circle.

Targets.

Sandteak targets, scattered all across the yard behind the warehouse. Some are hanging from the roof; some are staked in the dunes; some are rigged on pulleys stretched across the open sand. There’s an array of desert animals painted on them, from lizards to gigantenders, and red bullseyes over their centers. A well-used sawhorse lies tucked out of the sun under the eaves, paintbrushes hanging off the sides.

“What’s all this for?” she whispers as all her ghosts fall quiet.

Ryne smiles brighter than the sun and presses a dagger into her hand. “Practice!”

*~*

An hour later, there are stab marks and chakram slices all across an unfortunate Talos’ face. Zoeya laughs as she watches Ryne’s vain attempt to pull her dagger’s point out of its painted maw.

“Have you tried wiggling yet?”

“I’m wiggling! I’m wiggling!” Ryne yells back. “I’ve almost got it!”

Then she gives a mighty yank –

And falls ass over teakettle backwards down the dune.

Zoeya laughs even harder as familiar footsteps approach from behind her. There’s the distinctive  _ thunk _ of lumber being propped against brick before they stop.

“Having fun, I see.”

She turns around.

He’s stripped down to his tank top again, this time with denim pants. He wipes his brow with the back of a work glove and rests his hands on his sides. His breathing is heavy. His shirt is soaked. His neck and shoulders are covered in sweat. His exertions only accentuate the movement of his muscles as his tanned skin glistens in the sun.

Zoeya mentally tucks that visual away for later. Then she pushes her hair behind her horns, clasps her hands behind her back and saunters over towards him, spiked tail swaying in the breeze.

“Hi.”

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t come any closer, if I were you.”

She takes another step anyway. “Was this your idea?”

“Honestly,” he warns, “I won’t be held accountable if you –“

She kisses him. Long, soft, and slow. She can taste the salt on his lips, the sweetness of the cactus juice he just drank. The rough leather on his palms scratches through her shirt when he gingerly grips her shoulders. She can’t resist adding just a bit of tongue to the mix, drawing a quiet sound of surprised pleasure from his throat. By the time they part, there’s a different sort of heat pooling in her belly.

“Thancred?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

He blinks as if coming out of a reverie. Then he swallows. “You’re welcome.”

“About the other day… Can we talk? Later?” she wrinkles her nose. “Maybe after you’ve had a shower?”

He chuckles. “I did try to warn you.”

She shrugs. “Still worth it.” Then she takes a step back. “Need some help? I’m not half bad with a saw myself.”

“I think we’re done for the day.” He eyes Ryne’s dust-covered form climbing back up over the dune. “Seems I’m not the only one in need of a bath.”

Then he cuts his gaze over to her, leans in close to her horn and drops his voice low.

“Not hoping to walk in on me again, were you?”

Zoeya freezes. All the heat in her belly surges into her cheeks. Then she turns and walks away, stopping in the back door frame to make eye contact again with a flick of her tail. “In your dreams, Waters.”

He gives her a roguish grin and tips his chin at her while he pulls off his gloves by the fingertips. “Only the best ones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess coronavirus is good for something, huh? :P
> 
> Happy introvert's St. Patty's to all of us holed up in our homes. May the land rise up to meet you and the wind always be at your back.


	13. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *IMPORTANT CONTENT WARNING*
> 
> The following chapter deals with trauma and traumatic themes, particularly those related to loss, post-traumatic stress and sexual assault. Please take care of your mental and emotional health as you read this chapter; the well-being of my readers is far more important to me than any kudos or comments you could give.
> 
> *Lesser Warning*  
> For headcanons on Thavnair and Raen culture, extrapolated from the (extremely limited) canon sources.

Zoeya paces.

Urianger had greeted her warmly upon her return and and immediately removed himself from the premises. The man knew how to read a room if nothing else, gods bless him; he’d looked up from the couch as soon as she walked through the door, shut the heavy tome he was perusing, and announced he was urgently returning to the Bookman’s Shelves to retrieve some obscure arcane reference on the nature of souls. It was an obvious lie, but she’d smiled gratefully at him anyway. He’d bowed, winked once, begun his teleportation spell one moment and was gone the next.

Thancred had taken his shower, emerged with a towel around his shoulders looking handsome and damp and irresistible, and promptly found a way to send Ryne off to the markets. Zoeya had given the same excuse about washing up after training to Ryne and slipped away down the hall towards the showers, only to take a detour into the third door on the left instead. She can hear the low tones of his voice now through his bedroom door, cautioning Ryne to be aware of pickpockets and sending her on her way.

So now, she paces, waiting to hear the weight of his steps coming down the hall, attempting to soothe her restless mind by cataloguing the features of his room for lack of anything else better to do. One simple wooden dresser to her left, topped with an oil lamp and a leather tool roll she immediately recognizes as his gunblade cleaning kit. One hamper and one waste bin stand next to it; she wrinkles her nose and hopes he never misses one when he means to toss something in the other. There’s a chair and small desk tucked against the wall to her right, bare but for one jar full of quills and some blank parchment. A sizable window takes up most of the far wall, with a metal-framed double bed shoved lengthwise beneath it. Black drapes are drawn across the window, throwing the room into shadow; she puts one knee on the mattress and leans over the bed to pull them open and let in the fading evening light. She winces when the mattress springs creak and hopes Ryne didn’t hear the noise on her way out. The last thing she needs is people getting certain… _ideas_ about her purpose here when all she wanted was some time alone to talk.

Then she remembers Urianger’s uncharacteristic wink, groans and covers her face with her hands as she circles the room again.

Two knocks sound at the door. She takes a deep breath and crosses her arms over her chest.

“I’m in here.”

He opens the door and steps inside. The winning smile on his face fades when he sees the pensive frown on hers. He straightens his posture and pushes the door behind him until it clicks.

“You wanted to talk?”

“Yeah.” She pauses. “But – it’s not – it’s not about you. Mostly. So. Don’t worry.”

“Well. I feel completely reassured.”

She snorts, swaying her tail back and forth. “Really. I mean it. It’s just – me. All me. And I…” she raises one hand to rub her forehead. “ I owe you an explanation.”

He takes a few steps towards her. Then he rubs his hair with the towel one last time, tosses it in the open hamper and mirrors her posture.

Zoeya lets her hand fall to loosely cover her mouth. Part of her is already quailing under his piercing gaze. She takes a deep breath.

“This isn’t… the first relationship I’ve ever been in.”

He nods.

“You remember – that day on the cliff? When I mentioned I hadn’t, er…” she waves her hand in a circle. “… since before I left Thavnair?”

“I do.”

“That relationship. It…” she takes another deep breath. “I should never have been in that relationship. I mean, part of the reason I haven’t… you know… is the way I am, and the fact I swore I would never force myself to be with someone for the sake of it ever again, but… I’m also… carrying things. From that.”

He doesn’t say anything. But his expression changes from defensive to concerned, and suddenly she can’t bring herself to look him in the eye.

“It’s not your fault,” she mumbles to the floor. “It’s me. So. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.”

“Zoeya.”

“Alright. Maybe I’m not fine. But I’ll get by, same as I always have. So. I’m sorry. You don’t…” Gods. Why is her vision blurring? “… you don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

His hands settle gently on her shoulders.

“Has no one informed you that you’re a terrible liar?” he intones, as if commenting on the weather or the price of tea in Eulmore.

She winces. “That bad?”

“Worse. Quite possibly the most inept liar I’ve ever seen.” He lowers his head in an attempt to catch her eye. “It’s endearing most of the time.”

She laughs hoarsely despite herself.

“I’m far more concerned that this,” he gestures at her face, “is becoming a pattern.”

“What?” She blinks quickly and shakes her head. “No it isn’t.”

“Amaurot. Your room. The lake shore.” He reaches up and wipes away a trace of dampness on her lashes with his thumb. “Now.”

“I don’t – “

“You ask me to follow you, find someplace secluded, and end up weeping _every time_ you want to speak to me alone.” He idly rubs the trace of liquid between his fingers. “Why?”

Every thought whirring through Zoeya’s head slowly grinds to a halt.

“I …” she begins again, but she never finishes the sentence. There’s an odd look in his eyes that she can’t quite place. It’s some cross between reluctance and acceptance, exasperation and fondness; and the simple weight of his hands on her shoulders grounds her in the present more than she’d thought it could.

To his credit, Thancred doesn’t say anything when she begins silently trembling in his grasp. He simply steers her backwards until her calves touch the bed frame. She stumbles a little when he guides her down to sit on the mattress. Then he settles next to her, hands by his sides.

Zoeya stares at her hands. They shake, even when she lays them palm-up against her thighs. Why _does_ she do this? Why is this always so _hard_? The scholarly side of her brain sets each of the four scenes up next to each other, comparing and contrasting the circumstances, tossing away outliers and correlating information as she shuffles the patterns in her mind. She rearranges the data ad nauseam, searching for different results in vain and arriving at the same conclusion every time.

“I’m… afraid,” she whispers.

“Afraid?”

She nods. Clenches and unclenches her fingers.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever given you a reason to fear me,” he bristles as he crosses his arms. “In fact I’m quite certain you could knock me six ways to the Crystarium and back again with a flick of your little finger if you so wished.”

She snickers at the imagery despite the defensive undercurrent in his words. “Maybe I should try that. Save you some coin on amaro fare?”

“ _Zoeya_.”

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “Poor taste.”

Silence falls. Zoeya stares vacantly at the floor, head bowed, mindlessly tracing the tile’s intricate patterns with her eyes.

“I’m not…” She shakes her head at her lap. “I’m not afraid _of_ you.” She raises her head and gives him a broken, helpless smile. “Do you think I would keep asking to be alone with you if I was afraid of you?”

“I hope not,” he says, deadpan. “It would say something rather unexpected about our relationship if you did.”

She snorts at that. He smiles, just a little. She looks back down at her lap.

“I – I’m afraid,” she takes a deep breath and blinks back her tears, “of losing you.”

Thancred says nothing. Zoeya laces her fingers together and idly plays with her thumbs.

“At the lake… I was afraid. That you didn’t want me the way I need you.”

He inhales sharply. She continues as if she never heard him.

“In my room… I was afraid. That I’d ruined what we had by telling you how I feel. That you expected something instead I wasn’t ready to give. And in Amaurot…” She looks up, voice hollow and eyes shining. “I tried to protect you from myself.”

“Gods damn it,” he curses under his breath. Then he throws his arms around her shoulders and pulls her into a crushing embrace. She grips the back of his jacket with equal desperation and sobs into his neck.

“You will not _lose_ me,” he murmurs brokenly into her hair. She nearly flinches at the sensation of his lips grazing her horn. “Until the day you finally tire of me and send me on my way, _nothing_ you could say would drive me from you. Understand?”

She can only nod as her tears trail down his throat.

*~*

After Zoeya cries herself out, Thancred fishes the towel out of the hamper. She wipes her sore eyes on a dry corner and dabs carefully at his lapel.

“Sorry I messed up your jacket,” she mumbles. “Right after you showered and everything…”

“It’s fine,” he mutters. “It’s weathered far worse than saltwater and snot.”

She smiles a little at that. He grins in return and tucks her hair behind her horns.

“Are you ready now?”

Zoeya stiffens. She looks away and tucks a tight fist in close to her chest. For several minutes, there is only silence.

“...Thancred?”

“I’m listening.”

She gradually lowers her clenched fist into her lap.

“What… what I am about to tell you, I – “ she swallows thickly. “I have _never_ told anyone else. Ever.”

“Fortunately for you, I’m in the business of keeping secrets.”

She huffs in response. “Yeah. I… I guess you are.”

Zoeya takes a deep breath. Then, slowly yet surely, she relaxes her fingers until her hand lies open and still. Thancred reaches over and twines his calloused fingers with her own.

“It’s alright if you’d like to wait for another day.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I promised you an explanation and… It’s time you knew what you were getting into.”

Thancred furrows his brow. “Time I knew what?”

Zoeya doesn’t say anything for a very long time.

“Tell me, “ she murmurs. “How much do you know about the Raen?”

“The Raen? You mean Dra – Au Ra, with pale horns like yours? Back on the Source?”

She nods. He knits his brow, props an elbow on his knee and rests his chin on his hand.

“You’ll have to forgive me. It’s been quite a while.”

“It’s fine. Just… tell me what you remember.” She watches as his gaze goes unfocused. He too, is quiet for some time.

“I spent some time undercover in Garlemald while you were spearheading the Doman revolution in the East,” he muses eventually. “Much of it was spent in an occupied city by the name of Werlyt. A large share of the population was Raen, and while most of the younger generation was ignorant of their lost culture or assimilated into Garlean society, there were still some elders who held to the old ways.” He turns his head to look at her. “You mentioned once… in Slitherbough. That you were the eldest of four?”

“I did.” She nods her head. “I’m honestly surprised you remember that.”

“If I recall correctly,” he continues, “the Raen are traditionally matriarchal. There is a grand matriarch of each community – typically a crone with ties to every clan in the region, either by blood or marriage - and the eldest daughter of every family is expected to maintain her family’s reputation and pass on the family name…”

“In hopes she might become matriarch one day,” she finishes. “Yeah. That’s… pretty much it.” She looks down at their joined hands and runs her thumb over the side of his hand. “Even in the East, it’s like that. Do you remember hearing about the village under the sea?”

“Vaguely, yes… something about a princess and saving her from a witch.”

“Sui-no-Sato isn’t just a village. It’s an exclusively _Raen_ village. Has been, for hundreds of years.” She idly turns their hands over. “I learned so much about my people from being there - so much that had been lost. And even there, it was the same: only Ruby Princesses. No Ruby Princes.”

“With the princess being their version of a matriarch, I presume.”

She smiles. “Something like that.”

He smiles back, before a cloud crosses over his face. “Which does beg the question…”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “I know.”

Zoeya nearly lets the conversation die in the silence.

“My parents were – are, I suppose – clothcraft merchants, in Thavnair. Fairly prosperous ones.” She shifts in her seat. “Our shop was old, but it’s been in the family for generations, and we’d built a brand and a loyal following in Radz-at-Han. I was raised knowing that taking over the family business was both my birthright and a foregone conclusion. They spared no expense on my education: languages, history, economics, mathematics, magic, you name it. And I loved every moment of it.” She laughs a little to herself. “I was that child who would beg to take a textbook home just so I could read it before bed every night.”

“Ye gods,” he interjects in mock disgust. “Perish the thought.”

She knocks her shoulder into his. He rolls his eyes and motions for her to continue.

“It just… it was never what I wanted for myself. I always wanted to explore all the exotic places I read about. I talked incessantly about leaving Radz-at-Han and traveling the world. Don’t get me wrong,” she interrupts herself, “my parents made sure all of us had a solid education. But my next younger sister, Aliyah, was only a year younger. She never could forgive me for my dreams. She resented me for being born first and not valuing the privileges that came with it.” Zoeya goes quiet for a moment. “Looking back… I think she simply wanted what she couldn’t have.”

“Seems a common theme among siblings.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I guess it is. Even so, just because I wanted to leave didn’t mean I was going to. I knew my duty. No matter how oppressive it felt.” She looks up at the ceiling and idly counts the tiles. “My first love was a Seeker girl.”

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye to gauge his reaction. There’s no shock, or scandal, or jeering leers; only acceptance. She takes a deep breath and goes back to counting tiles.

“Her name was I’naya. She moved into the house down the street when I was still in primary school. We quickly became inseparable – her mother used to joke that I was the scaly kit she never had. She was my best friend in the entire world. And then one day, when I was thirteen, after we’d spent about a year twining tails and holding hands… she kissed me, under my grandfather’s favorite lemon tree.” She smiles fondly at the memory before her face fills with resigned acceptance. “I’naya’s parents worked for the Alchemist’s Guild.”

“The Thavnairian Alchemist’s Guild?” Thancred queries. “If I remember correctly…”

“They have even more power than the Syndicate? Yeah,” she confirms bitterly. “That’s them. And somehow, even though they’d been valued employees for years… about a month later, they were dismissed and transferred to the branch in Ul’dah.”

She can feel his grip tensing on her hand. She gently squeezes back, and he relaxes little by little.

“I was despondent after she left. We sent letters, of course, but they would take weeks if not months to travel so far. And then eventually, as things do… her letters came less and less.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she replies with a sigh. “It was a long time ago. After I’naya left, my mother suddenly became a fan of the traditional Thavnairian dance scene. She insisted all of us train in the art. Said it would be a good way to show our wares in action. Even though I dragged my heels at first…” she shrugs helplessly. “I fell in love with it anyway.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That good?”

She lightly smacks him on the arm, smiling gently the whole time. “It was. We used wooden discs instead of chakrams, of course - and I’d never even heard of a soul crystal before I came to Eorzea - but _en avant_ -ing across the room, throwing everything I had into executing a perfect technical step… I imagined it was the closest thing to what flying must be like.” she sighs wistfully. “It helped me forget.”

“Perhaps that’s what she intended.”

Zoeya’s face darkens. “Maybe.”

There’s a tense silence.

“I appreciate your confidence and candor,” he murmurs softly, “but I’m not quite sure where this is going.”

“I know. Don’t worry, I’m almost there.” She offers him an apologetic smile. He exhales and nods in return.

“My style wasn’t flashy or seductive, but it did win praise from my teachers. Aliyah stepped in to fill that void. The year I turned eighteen our instructors talked to my parents and suggested we perform as a duo: Aliyah to draw the spectators in, me to hold them. And it worked. It wasn’t long before we were regulars on the competition circuit, winning ribbon after ribbon. Profits soared at the shop. We were minor celebrities in the neighborhood – the grand matriarch even called on us one day, praising us for bringing honor to the family.” She takes a deep breath and grips his hand.

“… and that’s where it all went wrong,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “That was the beginning of the end. Because she didn’t just visit to praise us. She visited,” Zoeya swallows, “to propose an arranged marriage. For me.”

Quiet descends on the room. Thancred’s shoulders stiffen.

“If you are trying to tell me –“

“ _No_ ,” she rejects immediately. “ I am _not_ married.”

He lets out a breath as shoulders relax. “Then…” he knits his brow. “There was fallout.”

Zoeya shudders involuntarily and wraps her free arm across her stomach.

“Yes,” she whispers. “There was.”

Thancred says nothing. He simply holds her hand.

“… my mother’s best friend,” she hisses between gritted teeth, “was a high-ranking manager in the Guild. She was also the matriarch’s granddaughter. She had a son, only two years older than me. His name, “ she intones as her eyes darken, “was Nasir.”

“I take it you two didn’t get along.”

“Never did. I always thought he was a self-important, spoiled playboy.” She takes a calming breath in through her nose. “But evidently he’d become a devoted fan of Aliyah’s, and had been seeing her in secret for some months. Eventually he got up the courage to request permission to marry her. His mother took his request to the matriarch for approval. The matriarch heard her… and gave me to him instead.”

“Couldn’t you have gone to her and – “

“Explained? Oh, believe me, we did. We even set aside our differences to do it. But as we knelt before her in her home, she decreed that her favorite granddaughter’s son deserved only the best.”

“The heir,” he muttered as realization dawned. “You.”

Zoeya gave a cold, mirthless laugh. “Me. She told us to work it out. That plenty of arranged couples who didn’t like each other before learned to get along, and that we should do the same. That no one likes a daughter-in-law who talks back. That I was fortunate she was willing to show me such favor considering my… heritage.”

“Your heritage?”

She stops. Looks at him. “I never…? Of course I didn’t.” She rubs her face with one hand and sighs. “Have you ever wondered why I’m so tall?”

“Tall?” he queries, baffled. “I don’t know if that’s ever a word I would have thought of to describe you.”

“Well, alright, not compared to most races, but – Y’shtola and I. We’re the same height.”

“Yes,” he says slowly. “You are.”

“I’m sorry,” she sighs, “I’m not being clear. My grandfather - my father’s father – he lived with us. Helped raise me and my siblings until he died when I was twelve. He immigrated from the East. He had pale horns, and a spiked tail, sure – but he was missing most of his scales, and only six and half fulms tall besides. I asked him why once, when I was little.” She blushes a little and looks away from him. “And he told me his father was a Hyur.”

“I take it the old bat was a purist,” he mutters darkly.

“Yeah,” she sighs in resignation. “She was.”

Thancred rubs his forehead with one hand and makes a subtle sound of frustration. 

“Thancred… I want you to know.” She ducks her head to look him in the eye. “I have always been the way I am. I’d had two short-lived attempts at relationships, after Naya - fooled around a little because they wanted to, but they always complained I was cold, or acted like a ‘dead fish’ when they touched me. I just never _… felt_ anything when they did. Because I never cared for them the way I did for her.” She shakes her head. “I’d already known Nasir for years. I’d played nice because he was my mother’s best friend’s son, but I knew without a doubt he wasn’t the kind of person I could ever have feelings for. So I decided I’d tell him so, and that he could continue with Aliyah behind closed doors for all I cared.”

A full body shiver courses through her frame. She closes her eyes and clenches her jaw. “I was young. And stupid. And believed the best in people. And I didn’t think about the kind of fury a rotten imitation of a seven-fulm tall man could have after being told to put up and shut up for the first time in his life. I thought, if I just asked to speak with him alone… if I just explained...”

She grips his hand like a vice. Her surroundings distort, taking on an eerie dreamlike quality. Her pupils dilate. Her breath comes short and shudders on the way out. Thancred sits up straight in alarm and reaches for her.

“Breathe,” he murmurs as he rubs her back. “Breathe, Zoeya. Focus on my voice. In… and out. In… and out -”

“I wasn’t a fighter back - back then. I knew not to go home with strangers. But he **wasn’t.** He wasn’t a - a stranger, and I’d been to - to that house, with-with-with my _parents_ , dozens - gods, _hundreds_ of times –“

Thancred pulls her in close. “Shhh, love, that’s enough. No more.”

“He told me - told me he was - was going _fix_ me,” she mutters hollowly, watching her hand make a fist in his jacket. “I couldn’t st-stop it, I – I was - I wasn’t _strong enough_ , I -”

“You _never_ have to justify yourself to me,” he whispers brokenly into her horn. “Do you hear me?”

Zoeya nods numbly and listens to herself sob as he rocks her back and forth and strokes her hair.

*~*

Zoeya doesn’t speak for a long time after that. She simply focuses on breathing; in and out, in and out.

The sun has begun to set by the time she lifts her head from his shoulder. Her hair has stuck to the salt tracks on her cheeks.

“Welcome back,” Thancred murmurs as he gently plucks the wine-red curls away, one by one.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t think I’d have to do this twice.”

He simply shakes his head and goes about his work.

When he finishes, he takes her hand in his once more.

“Is there anything else you wanted to say?”

She hesitates. “I didn’t finish.”

“Do you want to finish?”

She hesitates again. Thinks about telling him how she struggled home and told her mother she fell down the stairs to the market when she asked. Thinks about telling him how she gave up dancing because she felt too vulnerable knowing he would be watching her on the stage. Thinks about telling him how she lived in fear of her own intended for weeks before she attempted to confess to her parents; and how they brushed off her terrified babbling as simple cold feet. How she ran to the harbor with nothing but the clothes on her back, and bribed a pirate crew to take her away, the very night they began clearing her grandfather’s old room for him in the family compound.

“Not really,” she confesses.

“Good.”

“Um.” She blinks slowly. “Do you maybe… have a washcloth?”

He nods. “Stay here.”

“Okay.”

He raises her hand to his lips and kisses her fingers. Then he lets go, gets up, and leaves the room.

*~*

When he returns a few minutes later with a wet washcloth, Zoeya is sitting against the head of the bed, legs drawn up and hugging a pillow to her knees. He silently crosses the room and hands it to her.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

“Anytime.”

She wipes her face slowly, being extra careful around her tender eyes. Then she hands it back to him. He crosses the room and drops it in the hamper.

“While we’re being honest with each other, would you answer one question for me?” he murmurs.

“Sure.”

“Why?”

She sighs, hugging the pillow tighter to her knees. “You’ll have to be a little more specific.”

He takes three steps closer. She doesn’t look up.

“You have the admiration and respect of peoples of every race and creed. Nobles, paupers, and leaders of nations hold you in highest esteem. They have sought your friendship, asked for your hand, sent you rare and expensive gifts.”

He sits down next to her, forearms leaning against his knees. His figure blocks out most of the sun’s glare. Deprived of her pretense, Zoeya resigns herself and looks up. He faces away from her, his hair obscuring his eyes. They stay that way in tense silence. When he finally speaks, it’s so quietly she can barely hear him.

“I have nothing to offer you. No wealth. No power. No secret knowledge or arcane influence - nothing that cannot be provided so very easily by so many others. I rely on a _child_ to create the selfsame ammunition I defend her with.”

He finally returns her gaze, amber eyes full of an emotion she can’t name. “Why me?”

No façade. No careful misdirection. Just a man. Waiting.

Zoeya carefully puts the pillow down.

The mattress springs creak with her subtlest movement. Are they loud? They _feel_ loud. She lowers her feet to touch the floor and shifts her weight. She angles towards him, knees just barely touching his on the edge of the bed. There’s something fragile hanging in the air - something so all-encompassing she can barely breathe, something that feels like it could shatter from the miniscule force of a careless exhale. Her own visage stares back at her from his irises, living mirrors shaded in doubt.

“Because you see me.”

His lashes sweep over his cheeks once. “You’ll have to be a little more specific.”

She huffs a laugh under her breath. His lips quirk up at the corners. She gingerly reaches for his left hand. He lets her take it. She cradles it between both of hers like something precious.

“I’m a tool for them. An ideal. A standard to rally behind.” She looks down and traces the pads of her fingers carefully over his fingernails. “Even the honest ones, the ones that mean well… they would use me for their own ends. And they have. Many times. ‘For the good of the realm’,” she adds bitterly.

She pauses. Her fingers glide down to his broken knuckles. She rubs her thumb in small circles over his scars.

“I’m a trophy for them, Thancred. Not a person. And whoever wins me gets the bragging rights.”

His hand contracts into a fist in her grasp. She continues tracing idle patterns across the back of his hand.

“But you…” she shakes her head in disbelief. “I didn’t even _like_ you when I met you.”

“I did get that impression.”

“You treated me like a damsel in distress,” she reminds him dryly. “And then, the way you were with your paramours – “

He smiles at her. Zoeya promptly loses her train of thought.

There’s a rueful, reminiscent kind of mischief in his amber eyes; and the way the sunlight hits them from this angle highlights the flecks of gold scattered in his irises. His lashes – had she ever really noticed them before? Long and dark, and the envy of many a socialite, to be sure. The beginnings of his crow’s feet crease as his full lips notch upwards. Strands of his hair shine like spun silver against his cheek. Five o’clock shadow ruggedly shades the angle of his jaw.

“You were saying something?”

“… what?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Something about my old habits?”

She blinks. “Oh.” Blinks again. “Oh! Yeah.”

His smile cracks into a grin. She tears her eyes away and stares at the floor.

“Just… suffice to say I had no interest before.”

“I see.”

She shifts uncomfortably in place.

“I judged you. Unfairly. For _years_. And I didn’t realize how unfair I had been until after…” she takes a breath and laces her fingers with his. “… until after the Bloody Banquet.”

He stiffens, as she knew he would. She squeezes his fingers. He hesitates. Then he carefully squeezes back.

“I did my best, you know? To make amends.” She’s off topic now, she knows it, but suddenly it’s like she’s broken a dam and feelings she forgot were rushing out. “I’m sorry. I… I couldn’t help you, when you needed it the most. So I tried to be better. To listen more, to what you were - and weren’t - saying. To act like the friend I should have been.”

“Zoeya.”

“No, just – just let me finish.” Her gaze stays fixed on the intricate tile patterns in the floor. “I was so worried about you when you collapsed in Ala Mhigo. About everyone, really, to absolute distraction, but – do you have any idea – “ she compulsively rubs the scaled vee on her forehead with her free hand. “Gods, I was _so_ relieved to find out you were _alive_.”

She pauses. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand is still in hers. She slowly lays her hand back in her lap.

“But you were different. Ryne was there. I could see how much you both were struggling. So I…”

“You tried to help.”

“I did. I finally got to know you better. I realized I _liked_ spending time with you, even in the midst of everything, even with how ridiculously, _infuriatingly_ stubborn you were being.”

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye. His head is bowed, eyes hidden behind his hair.

“Then you told me you were trying to be better, that day in Ahm Araeng, and I just…” she shrugs helplessly. “… knew.”

“You knew.”

“I did. Is… is that…” she swallows against the lump in her throat. Her voice sounds small, even to her ears. She hesitantly turns to face him. “Is that okay?”

Thancred slowly sits up. He looks at her. His face is a placid mask, but his eyes seem… different, somehow. As if they carry a different shine than they used to.

Nothing happens for several moments. Then he carefully cups the back of her head with his free hand, closes his eyes, and presses his forehead to hers.

Tears spring unbidden; she quickly blinks them back. Her throat grows tight with suppressed emotion. They’ve kissed so many times now. Touched further once or twice. But this, this simple gesture - it suddenly feels more intimate than anything else they’ve ever done.

His exhale shakes on the way out. She leans into his embrace and simply breathes with him.

“Stay.”

“What?”

“Stay.” His voice is rough and gravelly. “Please.”

She sighs. “Thancred…”

“I’ll sleep on the floor. Just let me be here in the morning.” He opens his eyes. “ _Please_.”

She gives him a watery smile and cups his face in her hands. “Okay.”

*~*

Thancred fusses after dinner when she refuses to let him sleep on the ground. She fusses right back at him. Eventually they come to a tenuous compromise.

Meaning, of course, that no one gets what they want.

Her heart hammers in her chest when he leaves the door clicks shut behind him. She tears into her pack and changes quickly into her perfectly appropriate long sleeve pajamas. She checks her reflection in his mirror for a moment once she’s done. Her hair is down and frizzy, curls mussed from her haste; she frowns, pulls out a hair tie and works a quick braid into her hair instead. She tugs the hem of her old long-sleeve shirt down where it keeps riding up towards her waist. It’s soft, and opaque, and just the right weight to layer under her robes in colder climes, which is why she has it, but… it’s also…

Form-fitting.

And she’s never been as svelte or petite as an Auri woman should be.

She frowns again. She still remembers the snake-tongued old biddies down the street that would hide their mouths behind her hands when she passed by; how Nasir’s mother would gift her clothes two sizes too small, as if by sheer wishful thinking Zoeya could shrink herself into the ideal her once future mother-in-law wished she could be.

_But it hasn’t seemed to bother him before,_ a little voice in her head whispers. _And he_ **_is_ ** _a Hyur. Maybe…?_

She suddenly can see it in her mind’s eye: Thancred sauntering up behind her, wrapping his arms around that exposed sliver of flesh, slipping deft fingers under the fabric of her shirt and slowly rucking it up as his hand moves higher. Pushing her hair over her shoulder with the other hand with an appreciative smirk, leaning in to lay his lips against her pulse -

“This,” she swears under her breath as she picks up his camp blanket and promptly wraps it tight around her shoulders, “ is possibly the _stupidest_ fucking thing I’ve ever done.”

Two raps sound at the door.

“Just a minute!” she calls back. Zoeya kicks her pack against the wall and hurriedly crawls under the covers. She winces when his bed frame creaks in protest as she scoots over to the far side, wraps herself up in a double layer of sheets and blankets and presses her back against the wall. She carefully clears her throat. “Come in.”

She feels completely absurd granting the man permission to enter his own damn room.

The doorknob turns. He slips soundlessly inside on bare feet. He’s wearing a white short-sleeved undershirt and black cotton pants; the same ones he’s worn half a dozen times in front of all the Scions whenever they’ve been lucky enough to find an inn. He stops in his tracks. Stares at her. Slowly shakes his head.

“You look ridiculous.”

She shrugs in her blanket cocoon. “Just precautions. That’s all.”

He crosses his arms and nods sagely. “For you, or for me?”

Zoeya makes a face at him and rolls her eyes. Thancred chuckles under his breath and puts out the oil lamp flickering on his dresser. He crosses the room at a deliberate pace, intentionally allowing his steps to make noise, letting his weight dip the mattress when he turns to sit with his back to her. The moonlight streaming through the window limns his neck and arms in a silver glow.

“Comfortable?” he murmurs over his shoulder.

“Yeah.”

He nods once. Then he carefully settles on his back next to her atop the covers.

“Goodnight,” she whispers into the dark.

“Goodnight.” He clasps his hands over his stomach and closes his eyes. “Maybe this time I won’t end up freezing half to death with spikes stabbing into my side.”

Zoeya gapes at him. Then she works one arm out of the covers and half-heartedly punches him in the shoulder. Thancred laughs.

In a matter of minutes his jaw goes slack and his breathing slows. Zoeya envies him. No matter how many karakuls she counts or how many mantras she repeats in her head, slumber refuses to come to her the way it always does. She stays wide awake for what seems like hours, both too exhausted and too keyed up to roll over, let alone rest. Watching. Waiting.

She tells herself she doesn’t know why.

Zoeya counts his lashes in the moonlight and marvels at their length. She traces his cheekbones and the arc of his throat with her gaze. He scrunches his nose when a draft blows a stray lock of hair over his face; she cautiously reaches out with her free hand and tucks it safely behind the shell of his ear. He makes a low, almost imperceptible noise at the unexpected contact and she freezes in place.

“Right. Light sleeper,” she murmurs to herself. His brows tense and draw down in response.

Very, very carefully, she reaches out and touches a point of tension over his nose with her index finger. She glides a featherlight touch along the line of his brow from his nose all the way to his temple. It’s something she remembers from her earliest memories: back when she would run to her parents’ bedroom in the wee hours of the morning, sobbing over nightmares of fire and brimstone falling from the sky.

“Shhh,” she whispers as she repeats the gentle motion, first over one eye, then the other. “It’s alright. I’m here.”

His face gradually relaxes into the image of peaceful repose. His head ever so slowly turns toward her and into her touch. For a moment, she could swear he was awake after all: but his eyes never open, and the sedate rhythm of his breathing never changes. The moon shines upon his profile, throwing the bow of his full lips and the crooked bridge of his nose into sharp relief. He seems so ethereal in that moment - a work of art, shaped by the moment and Menphina’s grace into something precious and sacred.

She wonders if anyone else has ever seen him like this.

Her eyelids slowly slip closed to the gentle susurrus of his breath against her pillow.

*~*

When she wakes just before dawn, the bed is empty.

Disoriented, she lifts her head from the pillow and wipes her mouth. She tries to get up and finds her limbs restrained. She works herself out of the blankets tangled around her tail and props herself up with one arm. It takes her a few moments to remember where she is, and how she got there; and when she does, she is beset by such a bewildering mix of relief and disappointment that she simply lets it wash over her without asking why.

It’s too early for questions. And she can hear the sound of water percolating from down the hall.

Zoeya dresses quickly in the grey early morning light. She lifts her pack over her shoulder and quietly closes his bedroom door behind her. She slips past Urianger and Ryne’s bedrooms without a sound, silently depositing her pack by the couch in the living room before she heads around the corner towards the kitchen.

Thancred is still in his sleep clothes, hair irresistibly mussed and pouring a mug full of black coffee with his back to her.

“Awake already?” he rasps.

She nods in the affirmative, before suddenly remembering he doesn’t have eyes in the back of his head. “I – uh… yeah. Used to getting up for training now.”

He turns and leans against the counter with an inarticulate grunt of understanding. “In that case…” He smiles gently at her over his mug. “You’re welcome to join me.”

She pads across the kitchen. “Got any milk or sugar for that?”

He tips his chin at the cabinet behind her. “Sugar, yes. Milk’s powdered.”

“Better than nothing,” she sighs, before she catches his eye again and feels the silliest smile spread across her face.

They drink their coffee in companionable silence. She is halfway through nursing her mug when she feels his gaze on her and looks up. He’s not looking at her exactly; more like lost in thought in her general direction. She reaches out and closes her fingers around his forearm.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” he mutters without thought.

She hesitates for a moment. Then she tugs at his arm, lifts it over her head and slips underneath as she guides his hand to rest on her waist. He raises an eyebrow. She raises one back. He smiles at her, tucks her in close and presses a kiss into her hair. She sighs, leans into his chest and takes another sip as they watch the sun rise through the kitchen window.


	14. Time

She should be familiar with the passage of time between worlds by now, but it’s still jarring every time she materializes back on the Source. Lakeland is finally shifting from everlasting spring into its first true summer in a century; Mor Dhona, on the other hand, seems to be just shaking off the last vestiges of winter. Her boots crunch through the remains of a half-melted patch of ice. She smiles at a crocus sprout peeking through the snow as she climbs the steps to the Rising Stones and quietly slips through the back door.

She’d expected a smile and a cheery greeting from Tataru, maybe a wave from Krile – but instead the two of them are huddled together by the front desk, faces dark as a familiar dragoon with long silver locks recounts something in hushed tones. Krile is the first to notice her wave.

“Excellent timing, my friend.” The diminutive healer’s smile is tired and wan.

“I would ask if something is wrong,” Zoeya sighs as she comes to a stop in front of them, “but that would be redundant, wouldn’t it.”

“That it would,” a gruff voice answers from above. Zoeya flicks her tail and looks up.

“Hello Estinien. Staying out of trouble?”

He snorts derisively. “With these two harridans involved? Hardly.”

Zoeya raises an eyebrow. Krile sighs.

“I think we had best take this to the Solar.” She meets Zoeya’s worried gaze; there are dark bags under her eyes. “You might want to sit down.”

*~*

Nothing but the slow, rhythmic chime of aether monitors disturbs the silence of the Scion’s sick ward. Zoeya stands stock still in the middle of the room. Krile hesitates. Then she shuts the door quietly behind her and steps forward.

“Their vitals are all stable, for now. I doubt I would have even detected the aetheric variations without my Gift.”

“But they still worry you.”

“Well, worry might be overstating things – “

Zoeya’s sea-green eyes meet clear blue ones. “His especially.”

Krile hesitates again. “Yes.”

Two rows of three beds each line the walls on either side of her. White cotton curtains hang between each cot. Privacy, even for the comatose. Zoeya supposes there’s something humane in that.

To her left lie Alisaie and Alphinaud, indistinguishable in their hospital gowns but for the contrasting ribbons tied at the ends of their beds. Alphinaud’s side table is piled high with well-wishes and paraphernalia from across the continent; Alisaie’s is sparser. Zoeya approaches her body quietly and picks up the single card. She smiles at X’rhun’s looping script.

The aether monitor chimes. Zoeya looks up; the rhythm scrolling across the screen is weak and slow, but regular.

“And there’s been no significant changes otherwise?”

“None. I would have informed you of any pressing developments.”

Zoeya murmurs a simple assessment spell anyway. Her magic washes over Alisaie’s inanimate visage to no effect. It’s an odd feeling, letting her aether confirm what her mind already knows. She still vividly remembers the day Alisaie fell; the pain, loneliness, grief, frustration - and anger. The horror of knowing whatever omnipotent being had snatched her friends’ souls away would come for her next.

Zoeya backs away without another word. She turns around and crosses the room. Urianger’s cot is closest to the door, with Y’shtola’s lifeless body in the next. Simple tokens of friendship from the junior Scions are scattered by their beds. The occasional anomaly bips across the screen of Urianger’s monitor.

“Krile? This signature… it’s – “

“A congenital heart defect, yes,” Krile murmurs.

“I had no idea.”

She clasps her hands in front of her. “I suspect it’s not a subject he prefers to talk about.”

Zoeya traces the spine of a book left by his bedside. “Is that what kept him off the front lines for so long?”

“It is not my place to say.”

There’s a gentle reminder in her colleague’s tone.

“Of course. Krile, I apologize. I - ” Zoeya rubs her temples. “I’m sorry. I know they’re not my patients. I know you’re doing everything you can. I just don’t think I’ll ever get used to feeling so…”

“Utterly helpless?”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Yeah.”

Krile gives her a rueful half-smile. “All we can do is keep trying.”

“Yeah.”

For a little while, neither of them say anything. Then Zoeya raises her eyes towards the final curtain.

“Krile.”

“Yes?”

“Could I… have a minute? Alone?”

Krile cocks her head in her peripheral vision. Zoeya can’t bring herself to answer the unspoken question. She just fixes her eyes on the curtain and tries to pretend she didn’t hear the subtle quaver in her own voice.

The silence goes on far too long. Then a small hand rests gingerly against the side of her knee.

“Master Matoya and I will do all we can.” Krile’s murmuring is soft. Delicate. “And for better or for worse, the man’s always been too stubborn to die.”

Zoeya laughs under her breath. “At least we have that in our favor, right?”

Krile pats her outer thigh reassuringly. “That we do.”

Zoeya spends a minute or two that way, fighting to maintain her composure. Eventually she takes a deep breath and rubs at her eyes with the back of her hand. When she finally opens them again, Krile is offering her a handkerchief. A small, spiteful part of her bristles at the role reversal; she pushes it away and takes the proffered cloth instead.

“Take all the time you need.”

Zoeya nods at the floor. Krile pats her leg one last time, walks away and shuts the door behind her.

When Zoeya finally rounds the curtain, she pulls a chair up to the side of his bed. His aether monitor chimes in her ear. There are no tokens on his side table, simply a washbasin and comb. In many ways, this man before her is a stranger; long unbound locks, scruffy beard, a tan line across his nose and forehead where a bandanna once would have been.

“Hey stranger,” she jokes to no one. “Fancy a little company?”

He doesn’t answer. Zoeya knew he wouldn’t.

“See?” she jibes, one palm turned up. “No tears this time. I’m getting better about this. What does it matter that your aether is unstable, or that none of Krile’s interventions are working, or that Garlemald is developing freakish new Ultima Weapons, or that your soul is -”

Zoeya stops herself mid-sentence. She presses her lips together and screws her eyes shut. Takes herself back to just a few days ago, when he held her so close she could hear his very heart beat against her horn.

She opens her eyes. “I picked a great time to fall for you, didn’t I?”

He doesn’t answer that either.

Zoeya picks up the comb. Then she carefully teases the knots out of his tresses as she runs her fingers through his hair.

*~*

She takes her own theorem and Krile’s results to G’raha. He calls the Scions to the Crystal Tower immediately.

Neither Ryne nor Thancred come.

She knows Urianger is telling the truth – that they stayed behind to monitor the Empty. That they must be fine, and healthy, and that he hasn’t seen any signs of aetheric compromise as of yet.

It doesn’t make her worry any less.

*~*

The Grand Cosmos is… certainly something. She’d thought she would be done getting whapped in the head by giant animated brooms after dealing with the original Master Matoya. It seems she was wrong.

When she thinks about how annoyed Thancred would be, she snickers to herself. Just a little.

*~*

Beq Lugg is astoundingly unhelpful.

Alright. Maybe she’s being uncharitable. What they did for the patients at the Inn is nothing short of a miracle. She knows it’s not their fault that Urianger’s white auracite hypothesis didn’t work out. She knows that G’raha is barely functional from all-nighters he pulls, and that Lyna is worried sick over his eating and sleeping habits.

What they need more than anything else is time. It’s not as if she doesn’t know the feeling of being stuck grinding out monotonous research just as well as any one of the Scions, what with the dozens upon dozens of repetitive tasks she completed for Ardashir and Gerolt in their pursuit of the perfect anima. There’s no substitute for time and the scientific method. She understands that. Honestly, she does.

But it does nothing to ease the ever-present anxiety prickling under her skin.

She pours herself into her work with the Mean in a vain attempt to distract herself. If the Launch is only a short walk away and she takes a surreptitious stroll towards the post-moogle’s station every lunch hour because of it, no one says a word.

*~*

After two weeks of back and forth between the Source and the First – so much so that she’s nearly lost track of the time difference between the two - the dry desert wind buffets her hair once again as she reappears by the aetheryte in Mord Souq. It’s nighttime, for a mercy. Mord Souq might be a trading hub, but it’s still a rural one; at least no one will be awake to see her in such a state.

She weaves her way quickly down the back alleys towards the makeshift Scion headquarters. She’ll just wait. She knows he’s not supposed to be back for another few days, and he’ll be too busy to spend any significant time with her anyway, and it won’t exactly be private, but –

Gods, she misses him. Misses the calluses on his hands, the stubble on his chin, the feeling of him warm and solid and whole in her arms, and she’ll take anything she can get.

She turns the corner towards the back door.

There is a light in the window.

She stops in her tracks, confused. What day is it? She counts out the hours she spent on the Source and multiplies them by three. No, no, he’s still not due until –

She cautiously approaches the door. Quietly slips the key in the lock. Listens for movement inside. Hears nothing.

The light abruptly goes out.

There are two possibilities here. Option one: no one is home, and they let the candle burn itself out for some unknown reason. Which would be an incredible fire hazard, and she’ll have to give whoever it is an earful as soon as she gets ahold of them, you don’t just leave an open flame alone near a dried out wood-frame window, let alone in a  _ desert _ –

Or option two: there is someone home. They heard her coming, and they are trying very carefully to be silent while she opens this door. Possibly with a dagger in hand.

Given that Ryne has too much faith in people to wait behind her own door with a dagger drawn, and Urianger is not only in the Crystarium at the moment but  _ terrible _ at hiding his heavy breathing when he’s trying to be quiet…

“Thancred?”

Her voice cracks on his name.

There’s a pregnant pause. Then the knob turns of its own accord as the door swings inward.

“Zoeya?” His messy silver hair shines in the moonlight as he sheathes his belt knife. He looks her over and furrows his brow. “What brings you here at one in the morning?”

“You,” she croaks.

He blinks. “Right. Well. No offense, but you look like death warmed over, so I’m not sure it’s the most opportune time for that.”

It takes her a second to process what he just said. Then she starts to laugh. She fists her hands in his tee shirt between hiccoughs and buries her face in his chest.

“Why aren’t you wearing your armor?” she rasps. “Were you planning to glare your next victim to death and hope they were unarmed?”

“Because, as I stated before, it is  _ one in the morning _ . And I do have a rather large knife.”

“Oh yes. Very scary. Prowling around in your pajamas.”

He heaves a long suffering sigh. Then he pulls the key out of the lock and pushes the door closed behind her. “Better than being caught unawares.”

She sniffles and wraps her arms around his waist. “I’m sure.”

He gingerly lays one arm across her shoulders and rubs the other slowly up and down her back.

“What brought this on?” he grumbles.

“I’m not crying,” she answers defensively.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“…I needed to see you.”

“I don’t know that you can see much from there.”

She rolls her eyes and nuzzles into his chest. “You know what I mean.”

“ _ Zoeya _ ,” he sighs in aggravation. “Why did you need to see me? What is this about?”

A chronometer ticks somewhere. Starlight streams through the window. A gust of wind rushes against the walls outside. Her voice is quiet and small.

“I miss the way you smile.”

His breath catches.

“I miss this – the way you hold me in your arms. I think about it all the time.”

“Zoeya,” he whispers reverently.

“I miss talking to you. I miss being close to you. I miss you.” She closes her eyes. “And your soul is separating from your body.”


	15. Touch (NSFW)

Twenty minutes of explanation and a lit oil lamp later, Zoeya nurses her second glass of brandy as she leans against the kitchen counter. Thancred pours himself two more fingers of whiskey and places the bottle back on the shelf.

“I presume you know the phrase ‘burying the lede’?” he mutters as he joins her at the counter.

She smiles wearily at him. He scoffs at her. Then he looks away and takes a sip of his own drink.

“I thought you were still supposed to be in the Empty,” she says instead.

“I was.”

“Why aren’t you?”

He leans his hip against the granite and studies the stone’s grain on the countertop. Then he carefully puts down his glass.

“Urianger didn’t like my aether.”

To say her anxiety spikes might be an understatement.

“Zoeya I am  _ fine _ ,” he reiterates before she can open her mouth. “It’s just a touch of exhaustion from being in the Empty so often. That’s all there is to it.”

“But – “

“But nothing. I appreciate your concern – “

“Oh, like I’m going to buy that,” she retorts as she sets her drink down next to his with a loud  _ thunk _ . “Come here.”

He sighs heavily. She drops her purse to the kitchen table, digs her scholar’s crystal out of her bag, and flips her codex to the appropriate chapter while activating the geometry for detailed assessment in the blink of an eye.

“This is completely unnecessary.”

She arches an eyebrow at him and promptly taps his left arm twice. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

He begrudgingly lifts both arms away from his sides. “I’m slightly offended that you don’t trust me.”

“Oh, I trust you plenty,” she counters while she lifts the glowing green glyph off the page, steps in close and begins with a cursory aetheric scan of his heart and lungs. “Just as long as your  _ own _ health isn’t involved.”

He makes a disgruntled noise over her head. “I suppose I deserve that.”

Zoeya hums in pointed agreement as she gestures with two fingers over the glyph, causing two glowing tendrils to grow from it and touch her finlike horns. “Deep breaths, please.”

Thancred sighs once more and does as he’s told. Zoeya lets her eyes go unfocused as she listens to the quiet sounds of air moving through his lungs, absentmindedly trailing her fingers delicately over his chest in a ladder-like pattern as she goes.

“You look very nice tonight,” he murmurs soft and low over her head.

“You’re not getting out of this with flattery,” she mutters distractedly as she moves the glyph to listen to his axial lung fields.

“Is that dress new?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, actually.”

“It’s not a fashion I’ve seen on you before.”

She shrugs. “Tataru bought it. It’s all the rage in Ishgard right now, apparently - I don’t normally go for this many ruffles.”

“It suits you.”

She smiles a little despite herself. He smiles back. She gives in and bats her eyelashes. Just a little.

“Quiet, please,” she asks softly. “I need to listen to your heart.”

“Far be it for me to stop you.”

She shakes her head fondly and closes her eyes as she shifts to hover over his lower left rib cage. “You’re impossible.”

Focusing on his heart sounds through the gentle rush of his breath isn’t difficult – it beats, sure and strong, with no murmurs, clicks or rubs she can detect. But the rhythm…

“Your heart rate is too high,” she mutters with a frown as she opens her eyes.

“Is it?” He muses, nonchalant. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“It is. Far higher than your resting rate should be, given your good physical condition.” She frowns again as she circles around to his back while the glyph shifts modes into its neuromuscular interface. “Any muscle weakness? Tingling in your hands or feet? Shortness of breath?”

“None.”

“Fatigue?”

“… perhaps a little.”

“For how long?”

“Since before I can bloody remember,” he grumbles.

“Seriously, Thancred?” She adjusts the position of the glyph once more, tracing a slow path with her fingers from the base of his skull down his spine as it assesses his functions, one dermatome at a time.

“I am serious,” he mutters as he lowers his arms. Goosebumps rise on his skin. Reverberations from his voice echo through the glyph into her ears. “Haven’t had a good night’s sleep since you were last here.”

If her spell flickers and her breath hitches at the sound of his admission, she does her best not to show it. She lets the scan run for just a little while longer; it highlights all of his bone spurs, healed fractures and partially compressed discs before she finally allows the arcane geometry to dissipate into glowing motes of aether. Her empty palm rests gently against his lower back.

“Your spine is a mess,” she concedes. “But at least it’s the same mess it was last time.”

“I’m flattered you think so.”

“I know so,” she retorts as she reaches up to tug lightly on the shell of his ear. “It’s my business to know. You’re mine to take care of, after all.”

“I am, am I?”

“Mmhmm,” she answers pleasantly as she lets her cheek fall against his shoulder blade, closes her eyes and wraps her arms around his torso. “You are. And I’m just…” she presses herself into his back as her fingers unconsciously worm their way under the hem of his T-shirt to find warm skin, “so relieved that you’re okay.”

“Gods help me, “ Thancred prays under his breath. “No more brandy for you.”

She frowns and lifts her head. “What was that?”

“I think it’s time we turned in,” he deflects instead as he gently extracts her fingers and moves them away from his hips towards his waist.

“Probably,” she concedes sheepishly. “Thank you for humoring me.”

“It’s fine. I was already up as it was.”

“One more question?”

“Go ahead.”

“I know you don’t sleep much in the field, but… How much shuteye do you get normally?”

“Four, five hours a night. If I’m lucky.”

She leans back. “That’s not good.”

“It is what it is.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

His head turns towards her over his shoulder.

“Are you asking?”

There’s a pregnant pause.

”Well,” she mumbles, pretending as if she hasn’t picked up on the huskiness in his tone. “I owe you for last time, right? And if it would make you feel better…”

Thancred turns back around. He makes a low sound she can’t quite place - something between a longing moan and a groan of frustration. He doesn’t say anything for several moments.

“No.”

She blinks. “No?”

“No,” he repeats with audible regret. Then he carefully removes her hands from his body and steps away from her embrace.

Zoeya’s hands hover in the air, frozen. A sharp pain she hadn’t expected lances through her heart. She crosses her arms against her chest and lowers her eyes to the floor.

“Please do not misunderstand,” he continues quietly as he turns and braces his hands against the counter beside her. “There is nothing I would like more -”

“Doesn’t sound like it,“ she mumbles.

“ – but If you were to lie in bed with me tonight, it would not be helpful. In fact, it would make sleep  _ very _ difficult.”

She clenches her jaw to keep from saying something petulant. The lamp flame flickers. His eyes burn into hers as he offers her a pained smile.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go find the spare blankets.”

“Spare – “ she furrows her brow. “You are  _ not _ sleeping on the floor.”

“No,” he confirms as he begins to walk away. “I think you’ll be alright on your own tonight. I’ll be out here on the couch.”

“I’m not sleeping in your bed without you.”

Thancred stops in his tracks.

Oh Gods. That sounds  _ so  _ much more forward out loud than in her head. She’s half-proud of his shell shocked expression and half-appalled at herself. The profile of his body, caught like this in the flickering lamplight, is so well defined even through the thin cotton of his pajamas; strong, broad shoulders, the subtle curve of his pectoral muscles, the taper of his ribcage down to his waist, the way the fabric of his pants strains over his hips, over his… his…

“Oh,” she breathes aloud as her eyes dart back to his. “ _ Oh _ ! Uh. I, um - ” She stammers uncontrollably as her pupils dilate and her scales flare hot, “That’s – I didn’t, I mean, I – uh – What I meant, was - “

He simply gives her a maddening little half-smile. Her mouth goes dry.

“I could… help.”

He blinks. “Come again?”

“Help,” she echoes. “With… um.“ She blushes further and makes a furtive gesture towards his beltline. “I-If you want.”

“ _ Gods _ , Zoeya,” he groans as he lays his head in his hands and scrubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. “This is not about what  _ I _ want.”

“Look. I know I’m not…” she shifts her weight and rubs her arms nervously. “… very experienced. But I could try. I’m a good listener, I can learn –

“Zoeya,” he pleads as he raises his head. “Stop. Please.”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, okay, I’m – stopping. Gonna stop.” She swallows thickly. “Now.”

Gods. She doesn’t know where to look, what to think, how to breathe. Just his eyes on her is causing that now- familiar heat to coil low in her belly. She’d fantasized, of course, and daydreamed, and wondered what it would be like to get this kind of reaction from him – but having him here, in front of her, pulling away from her touch and looking at her like she’s put him through agony…

It’s not the victorious feeling she thought it would be.

“Do you understand now?” he rasps, eyes locked on hers.

Shame washes over her when she looks away. “Yeah. I get it.” She turns to her codex on the table. “I’m not good enough to touch you. I’ll just -” A horrible, nauseating feeling twists in her gut. She shuts the tome, packs it away and busies herself straightening her bag. “I’ll leave you alone.”

He doesn’t respond. The silence is deafening. She hides her face behind the fall of her hair as she hikes her purse up on her shoulder. Her mind whirrs with questions and doubts. He was definitely flirting earlier - she thought he was enjoying her attention - but what if she was just… forcing herself on him?

_ You never should have told him, _ a poisonous voice whispers.  _ No wonder he won’t touch you. _

He crosses the room in three quick strides, yanks the bag off her shoulder, grabs her by the waist, and kisses her.

She barely has time to breathe before his hands are in her hair, on her neck, and she’s fisting her hands in his shirt and grasping for his skin.

“You stubborn woman,” he pants against her lips. “ _ No more running _ .”

“You started it – “ she gasps, but she doesn’t get to finish because he is doing something pretty incredible and new with his tongue, and gods, had he been holding  _ back _ every time they kissed before? And then his hands are moving, and  _ she’s _ moving –

Dishes clatter in their cabinets as her back slams into them. He’s lifted her clean off the floor and onto the countertop, and she moans against his lips as he pushes her knees apart to stand between. She grips his shoulders for purchase as he reaches over her skirt, cups her ass and pulls her center flush against him.

_ All _ of him.

Then he moves his hips.

She doesn’t even recognize the sound that comes out of her mouth.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” he swears.

Her chest heaves against her corset. He locks eyes with her. His pupils are wide and dark, his hair backlit and face half in shadow.

Then he does it again.

Her mind goes fuzzy. Dishes rattle. There’s only him, and his lips on her skin, and the way he makes her feel, and the way he’s gripping her thighs –

“Thancred,” she begs between kisses, but it might as well have been nonsense because she can hardly string together a single thought. The edge of the counter digs into her skin, rucking up her skirt around the base of her tail as she rocks against him, mindlessly seeking more friction, more, more,  _ more _ –

His hands are everywhere. They’re cupping her breasts, they’re raking down her back, they’re searching her corset –

“Front,” she gasps.

He stops moving. “Front?”

“Yeah,” she braces herself with one hand on the counter as she scrabbles for the bow knotted between her breasts, “here – “

His deft fingers work the knot loose in a matter of seconds. The previously hidden hook below slips open on her next heaving breath, and she gulps down the air she hadn’t realized she was lacking.

“ _ Gods _ , Zoeya,” he murmurs appreciatively as the leather below his fingers spreads further with her every inhale. “Look at you.”

Her skin is mottled red and pink from her arousal. Her chemise, neckline low as it is, has slipped even further down over her shoulders and chest. Her heaving breasts have nearly come free of their confines, pert nipples just visible through the thin white fabric. He hooks one finger over the next hook. Then he pulls back just enough to look her in the eye.

Zoeya swallows. Nods.

And watches as he pops them open, one at a time, ilm by agonizing ilm.

There’s a soft  _ whump _ as leather and boning hits the kitchen tile below. Her wide, loose neckline falls off her shoulders and down around her wrists. She’s so nervous she can hear her own heartbeat.

“Beautiful.”

Her breath hitches. “…Really?”

He smiles at her. Kisses her as he palms the full weight of her left breast, smiling wider at her involuntary gasp when he grazes his thumb over the peak.

“ _ Thancred _ ,” she whines.

He hums against her lips between kisses. “Someone’s sensitive.”

He plays with her breast with his right hand while the other traces the patterns of her scales through the remains of her rumpled chemise. From the front of her pelvis to the crest of her hips; from the base of her spine down over her tail; from the arc of her upper thighs down to her bared knees.

Then it starts moving in reverse.

“Thancred?” she whimpers as she fists her trembling fingers in the front of his shirt.

“Yes, love?” he murmurs, distracted, slowly working his way under the hem of her dress.

“Just… “ She hides her face in his neck. “Be gentle? Please?”

His hand stops moving.

“Zoeya.” He releases her breast and tucks her hair behind her horn. “Look at me.”

Very slowly and tentatively, Zoeya raises her head.

“Do you want to stop?”

“No?”

“That shouldn’t be a question.”

“I mean – no, I – when you touch me…” she nuzzles into his hand and presses a gentle kiss to the inside of his wrist, “… I like it.” Her flushed cheeks grow even hotter at her admission of the obvious. “But.”

He removes the hand on her thigh. ”Not there.”

She pauses. “Not yet.”

He shrugs. “Fair enough. There are other ways,” he smirks, rocking his hips against her core once more as she bites off a yelp of surprise, “to achieve the same result.”

And then there’s that friction again, and her heels instinctively hook around the backs of his legs to pull him closer. He applies counter-pressure at the base of her tail while she pulls her arms out of her collapsed sleeves, groans against her horn when she props her weight on one hand and digs the other into his back, cants his body just right into that profound ache growing between her thighs, and –

“ _ There _ ,” she pants into his mouth, “I – please, there, gods, please, I, please please  _ please _ –  _ Thancred _ – “

“Go on, love,” he purrs, “go on - that’s it – “

And she tumbles over the edge, keening helplessly in his arms.

*~*


	16. Trust

The calloused pads of his fingers are softer than she thought they would be.

Maybe soft isn’t the right word. She’s not quite sure what that is right now; to be honest, the distinction doesn’t seem important. The flat of her right horn rests on top of his shoulder, her face turned into his neck and her forehead tucked against his jaw. Her heartbeat slows to a languid tempo as he gently traces a slow path up and down her bare spine. Her arms and legs sag, boneless, while her eyelids flutter and she watches their shadows dance on the kitchen tile.

“Gil for your thoughts.”

“Mmmm,” she counters, barely more than a whisper. “What thoughts.”

“The ones in your head, presumably.”

She huffs a lazy breath through her nose. “Nope.”

“Keeping secrets?”

She smiles crookedly to herself. “Got none to keep.”

“That might be a first.”

“Maaaay-be.”

He chuckles quietly. She nuzzles further against his neck.

Thancred wraps his arms around her, gently nudging the edge of her horn to the side with his chin. He carefully lifts her off the counter; the fabric of her skirt slides off the stone with a quiet rustle as he cautiously sets her feet on the floor. She sways. He holds her close until her lax muscles remember how to stand. Then he braces her while he lifts an empty sleeve from where it hangs off her hip and pointedly nudges the side of her arm with it.

“…Do I have to?”

“Would you rather walk to bed half-naked? Not that I have any objections, mind.”

The prospect is legitimately tempting for a moment. He must sense her indecision, because he huffs gently and reaches between them to thread her hand through the cuff. She grumbles a little under her breath; he releases her and lets her slowly drag the sleeve halfway up her shoulder on her own. He shakes his head and presses a kiss into her hair.

“You know,” he muses idly into her crown, “of all the ways I imagined you might be after the fact, I never quite expected you’d turn out like this.”

“Is that a bad thing?” she mutters, working her other hand into its sleeve.

“Not at all.” He tucks a curl behind her horn, letting his fingers linger as he does. “It’s adorable.”

She grumbles a little more. He smiles and presses another kiss to her temple.

“I’m not…” she wrinkles her nose and trails off.

“You’re not…?”

She shakes her head slowly. “Adorable.”

“No. Of course you’re not. My apologies.”

She rolls her eyes and blinks blearily at her fingers while she ties the laces on her shift in a loose bow over her chest. She doesn’t need to see his self-satisfied smirk to know it’s there, and her head feels too heavy to lift anyways. Her fingers suddenly stop.

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I was…” she furrows her brow and lays a palm against his chest. “I was supposed to help you, too.”

“Well you’re in luck, then, because that ship has rather decisively sailed.”

Heat creeps into her cheeks. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

She glances up at him through her lashes. Sways her hips, just a little. Lets her tail reach forward and hook around his calf while she slowly rolls her shoulders back.

“…  _ really _ really?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Keen for another round already?”

She rolls her eyes. He chuckles deep in his chest.

“Zoeya. I’ve been living like a godsdamned  _ monk _ for the better part of  _ five years _ . Did you honestly think I’d last much longer rutting between your legs after hearing you beg my name so desperately in your pleasure?”

“You didn’t have to put it like that,” she mumbles as her knees go weak and she grips his shirt for balance.

“Oh, I rather think I did.” He casually steadies her with a palm pressed to her lower back. “I obviously haven’t been making it clear how profoundly I desire you. I’d like to correct that misconception as soon as possible - ”

“That’s – uh, I – “

“- and would be  _ more _ than happy to participate in further demonstrations,” he muses while she splutters and he palms her ass appreciatively, “anytime you find yourself in doubt.”

“Noted,” She rasps, suddenly breathless again. “ I, uh - Yep. Got it. Loud and clear.”

“Loud is right,” Thancred muses with no little satisfaction into the blade edge of her horn as he relents and moves his wandering hand back up to a more innocent position on her waist. “Perhaps I should invest in some corrugated paneling for my chambers.”

“Shut up. You know what I meant,” she retorts, the rebuke thoroughly ruined by the self-satisfied smile tugging at her lips.

He laughs under his breath once more. Then he cups the back of her head, closes his eyes, pulls her close and sighs gently against her temple. He holds her like that for a while; long enough that she leans into his strength while her own tired eyes slip shut. The rhythmic sensation of his gentle breath against her skin is… nice. Really nice.

“Zoeya.”

She doesn’t answer.

“Zoeya,” he repeats.

She stays silent.

“Zoeya.” He shifts his hold on her, slowly dragging the side of hand against the grain of the scales curling down her bared shoulder.

She frowns, lifts her head a fraction and wrinkles her brows. “…Mmmm?”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters in fond exasperation. “You really can nod off anywhere.”

“What?” She grouses and blinks at him again.

“Would you like to clean up first, or should I?”

She pauses. Shifts her weight self-consciously and feels her soaked underthings slide against her skin. “I, um… I’ll go.”

Thancred nods. “There’s a stack of washcloths in the washroom cabinet. I’ll grab your things. And after that…”

There’s nothing but the sound of the lamp flame guttering as he lifts the fingers of her left hand to his lips, eyes hooded and so full of restrained emotion that her heart aches.

“Come to bed,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” she whispers back as her cheeks warm. “Okay.”

*~*

When Zoeya first opens her eyes, she’s not alone.

Thancred lies beside her, one arm curled behind her shoulders and the other draped casually over her waist. His chest rises and falls nearly imperceptibly beneath her cheek. The sleeveless undershirt he changed into last night is soft against her skin where her wide neckline has gone askew. The weight of the blanket they share is pleasantly heavy against her hip. Starlight streams through the gap between his drapes, just barely illuminating the room. Her boots and her bag lie neatly arranged at the foot of his bed, looking as if they belong there – as if they’ve always  _ been  _ there.

She decides if this is a dream, she’d rather not wake.

*~*

There’s a subtle tension tugging at her curls.

It’s slow. Gentle. Beginning at her ends, working towards her scalp and carding back down towards her shoulders. She sighs softly as calloused fingers brush over the scales at the base of her neck; and for a moment, she’s suddenly reminded of that bright, high cliff, those same fingers in her hair, her heart in her throat and wondering:  _ what if…? _

His fingers come to a stop on the exposed skin of her upper back.

“There you are.”

She opens her eyes; sees a familiar jaw, just barely showing signs of stubble. Smiles.

“Hey,” she answers drowsily, blinking slowly against the early morning light.

“Hey yourself.”

She pauses. Thinks about whether she should kiss him.

“Sleep well?” he murmurs.

“Mmmhmm.”

She can feel the answering curve of his lips against her forehead and is almost insulted he beat her to it.

“Hey,” she grouses.

“Yes?”

She nudges his chin with her temple. Makes a little subvocal sound as she lazily rubs her horn against his clavicle. He makes a vaguely confused noise, and she tilts her head up to press her lips to the tender curve of his throat in reassurance. She rubs the flat of her horn against him again and unconsciously hooks her ankle behind his calf.

“I hate to ruin the mood,” he interrupts, the vibrations of his voice rumbling into her lips, “but I’ve lost all feeling in my right arm.”

She takes a second to process that before she makes a little noise of understanding and lifts her head. He hisses under his breath as she clumsily scoots a little towards the wall, rusty iron bed frame creaking in a decidedly lewd manner all the while.

“Sorry,” she mumbles with a wince.

“ ‘s fine,” he dismisses with a subtle head shake as he raises his hand before his face, making a fist and releasing several times. “Just didn’t want to wake you.”

An awkward silence descends. She watches his biceps and triceps contract; observes his well-defined muscles shifting as he raises his elbow and moves it in a circle. Dust motes circle above his body in the morning light.

“We slept in?”

“Seems so.” He flexes his arm back and forth. “Likely just before the eighth bell, if I had to guess.”

“Mmm.” She blinks sleepily and lays her head down again. “Should probably get up soon.”

“Have you got somewhere to be?”

She thinks about it for a bit. Hears the question he’s not asking. “The Captain doesn’t know I’m back yet, so… nowhere pressing, really.”

He tilts his head towards her a little. There’s the ghost of a smile at the edge of his lips. Then his lips turn down and he returns to stretching his arm.

“Hey.”

He looks up.

“What’s wrong?”

He glances away. Affects a perfect smile and looks back; and in that moment, though he lies an arm’s length from her, he instead seems malms and malms away.

“Just some pins and needles. Nothing to worry about. “

She watches him as he flexes his fingers in and out of a closed fist.

“Thancred.”

“Yes?”

“Please. Don’t lie to me.”

The smile falters. He raises an eyebrow. “I hate to break this to you, but your head is as heavy as any boulder. You’re lucky I chose to let you get your beauty sleep.”

She can feel her shoulders tensing. “Please don’t change the subject.”

All is silent for a few moments. He turns his eyes to the ceiling. His hand gradually stills; he lays it across his stomach without a sound.

“Last night,” he mutters.

Her tongue is tied up in knots. She manages a short nod. The bitter whisper returns, toxic thoughts resurfacing. _Does he regret it?_ _Has he changed his mind, has he -_

“I owe you an apology.”

Zoeya slowly leans up on her elbows, brow furrowed. “For what?”

“I was… rough, last night.” He won’t look her in the eye. “Rougher than I perhaps should have been.”

On the one hand, part of her is utterly relieved; on the other, she knows what he’s trying to say – or rather, not to say. She almost wishes he’d never said anything at all.

But he’s trying. By the gods, this man - he listens to her, and he tries, even if he doesn’t always hit the mark. He tries.

She reaches out and laces her fingers with his, uttering a simple Physick that pulls a soft sigh from his lips as the magic ripples up his arm.

“I trust you.”

He looks up. She squeezes his hand. Zoeya hesitates for a moment before she tugs their joined hands to her, shyly pressing a lingering kiss to the back of his broken knuckles.

“I was scared, when I told you.” She pauses. Leans onto her side and presses their joined hands over her heart. “I told you anyway, because when it comes down to it, you deserved to know, but I - if I didn’t trust you…“ She shakes her head. “I know you don’t want to hurt me. I know I’m safe with you. I think… you want to take care of me.” She smiles tenderly and lets her head fall against the pillow. “Just like I want to take care of you. “

“I’m that irresistible?”

She lightly whacks his chest with the back of her free hand. “I came all the way here in the middle of the night. What do you think?”

He grins. Then his bravado dims; something searching and vulnerable settles behind his smile instead.

“Thancred, I…” She squirms a little. Shifts her thighs back and forth. Reaches out and tucks his long bangs behind his ear. “I have…  _ no _ issues with last night.”

He contemplates her for a moment. Then he turns onto his shoulder and casually lets his left hand trace the curve of her waist. She shivers at the heat of his palm soaking through the cotton of her shift.

“That so?” he murmurs, in a tone like the smoothest velvet.

“Yeah,” she breathes, as the fog clears behind his eyes and he leans in close. “None  _ what _ -so-ever.”

His smiling lips are a fraction of an ilm from hers when she stops him with a hand against his sternum.

“There’s just… one thing, I’d like to ask?”

“Name it.”

She swallows. “You said something. To me. A few moons ago.”

He moves to kiss the underside of her chin, trailing his lips agonizingly slowly down her neck towards her pulse. “I say a lot of things.”

She bites back a moan as he rolls her over onto her back and his bed frame complains. “No, I mean – you should oil those joints - mmmn – about a door…”

“I hardly see the relevance at the moment,” he teases against her throat, grazing his teeth against her skin as he moves back up along her jaw to where her skin and scales meet, “But I’ll play along. What door?”

“Mine.”

He lifts his head. Presses his hands into the mattress on either side of her. Searches her eyes. She reaches up and tangles her fingers into his hair; and it’s somehow both strange and inevitable how easily the words begin to fall off her lips -

_ BANG! _

Zoeya nearly jumps out of her skin and grabs him around the neck. Thancred hangs his head in defeat.

“What the hell was – “

“ _ Alisaie _ ,” Thancred hisses, sounding ready to commit violence, “Always slamming the  _ goddsdamn _ doors – “

“Wakey wakey!” The unrepentant Levellieur calls through the house, clapping twice as her heavy footsteps approach from the front door. “Just because you’ve got a day off from the Empty doesn’t mean you can lie abed all day Thancred, I’ve got plenty of heavy lifting for you to do at the Inn. “

“Thancred,” Zoeya blanches, whispering in dawning horror, “My  _ corset _ \- “

He covers her mouth with one hand. Motions toward her bag with military precision. Clenches his fist and lays his other hand flat atop it – the Scion’s battle sign for  _ hold your position _ \- leans back on his haunches and soundlessly rolls off the bed into a crouch on the floor.

“Since when are you my keeper?” He growls back, putting extra effort into sounding as if he’d just awakened for the day.

“Since Ryne asked me to keep an eye on you while she and Lewrey are gone,” Alisaie retorts.

The footsteps stop. Thancred slips over to his bedroom door and silently throws the deadbolt. He gestures the  _ all clear  _ and Zoeya starts to breathe again, shifting to get out of bed and wincing as the iron giant creaks.

“Thancred,” Alisaie calls, nonchalant, resuming her steady tread down the hall. “Why are there two separate kinds of drinking glasses on the counter?”

Zoeya freezes with the bag half open. Thancred leans against the door and shrugs. “I decided I’d rather not mix my brandy and whiskey. What’s it to you?”

“Funny. I wasn’t aware you cared for brandy.” The footsteps continue. Zoeya yanks her corset out and hurriedly straightens her shift. “Nor have I ever known you to drink alone.”

Zoeya fastens her clasps faster than she’s ever fastened them before. The menacing footfalls finally end in front of his door. The handle rattles, but it doesn’t give.

“Than- _ cred _ ,” Alisaie calls, all singsong sweetness and honey. “Have you got a woman in there with you? Because,” there’s the characteristic  _ shing  _ of a rapier being drawn, “I would be very  _ disappointed _ to inform Zoeya you’ve been …  _ unfaithful _ .”

Zoeya stands up, straightens her shoulders, and drops her boots. She looks at Thancred, presses her lips together and crosses her arms. He smirks and slides the deadbolt back.

“You have until the count of three. One. Two – “

There is nothing but silence from the other side as Thancred swings the door inwards. Zoeya stands there, fully aware of the rumpled bed sheets behind her and her bare feet, trying desperately not to laugh as he leans insouciantly against the doorframe.

“Good morning to you too, Alisaie.”

The red mage freezes. Zoeya watches her eyes widen as they dart from Thancred, to Zoeya, to the boots on the floor and back again, thunder crackling along her blade.

“Could you put away your focus?” Zoeya suggests casually. “The bed’s iron. Don’t want any accidental discharges. Might be a nasty shock.”

Alisaie sheathes her blade with a swiftness Zoeya has never seen before. There’s a distinctive crimson tinge creeping up above her collar.

“I don’t believe I’ll need my virtue defended today,” Zoeya continues, approaching at a leisurely pace, “or  _ ever _ , really, but I appreciate the thought. And it’s generally considered  _ rude _ to enter your friend’s home uninvited, slam their doors and accuse them of cheating.”

“Well.” The girl’s ears turn the exact same shade of vermillion as her coat. “I thought - I was just... er. Trying to help. Sorry.”

Zoeya comes to a stop three fulms away. The loudest Levellieur coughs into her hand and shuts up, quiet as the grave. Zoeya tilts her head and regards her, thinking. Then she throws an arm over Alisaie’s shoulders, pulls her scarlet hair tie out, unbinds her braid and thoroughly ruffles her hair for good measure.

“Ah! Not the hair, come  _ on _ – I  _ just _ had a bath!”

“I could tell,” Zoeya answers, “and now it’ll dry all wrong, and you’ll have to wear it that way all day and remember why.” Satisfied, she releases the teen and claps her on the shoulder. “Thancred?”

He grins despite himself. “It’ll do.”

Alisaie tries to snatch her hair tie back. Thancred grabs it from Zoeya and holds it out of reach. The teen grumbles all the way down the hall as she fusses with her hair, trying to improvise a tie out of something on her person. Then she stops and turns around.

“We will  _ never _ speak of this.”

Zoeya shrugs. “Sure.”

Alisaie takes one more step down the hall and turns back again.

“Yes?”

“… the carers at the Inn do need help,” she mumbles. “If you’d be willing.” She hesitates. “Please.”

Zoeya looks to Thancred. He looks at her. The smile drops off his face, and he puts his hands in his pockets.

“Give me a bell,” he mutters. “I’ll be there.”

Alisaie nods. Then she shuffles down the hall, around the corner and out the door.

Zoeya looks back to Thancred after she hears the front door close. His eyes are hooded and pensive. She reaches out and twines their fingers, giving his a gentle squeeze.

“Gil for your thoughts?”

He regards her in silence for a long moment. There’s something wary about his gaze; something that reminds her of the way he assessed Amaurot, keen eyes looking for a threat and finding none.

“You wanted to stay hidden before.”

“Yeah,” she concedes. 

“Why did you change your mind?”

It’s as if by simply remembering the city of ghosts under the sea, she’s reminded of the only time they were alone there - of another conversation, one fraught with feelings unspoken and a solemn promise hidden in a confession he had no context for.  _ Because you’re my family, _ she almost repeats aloud; but she drops her gaze to their fingers and squeezes his hand again instead.

“Tataru… didn’t take the news well, when I told her we were seeing each other.” 

He grunts. “I can imagine.”

“You told me Y’shtola warned you off me before this even started.”

He shrugs. “You could say that. Though it was more a shot across the bow than a cease and desist.”

“That’s just it though,” she insists, irritated. “First them, now Alisaie of all people going out of her way to punish you for some perceived sin against me without so much as speaking to either of us first. I’m tired of it.  _ Beyond _ tired.”

He stares at her curiously. “My reputation isn’t exactly unfounded, love.”

“Maybe it wasn’t, once,” she counters, looking up, “but you told me yourself last night that you’ve been here five years and lived  _ none _ of it for your own sake. I’ve never had a reason to doubt you. You don’t deserve this, and I’m not going to just stand by and let it keep happening.”

“Felt you needed to defend my honor?” he quips, amused.

“Yes.” Her voice is firm. “I won't let them treat you like that. Not anymore.”

She watches the surprise wash over his face. It’s subtle, but it’s there; the slight change in the arch of his brows, the way his jaw relaxes just so. She rocks up on her toes and kisses him gently; he kisses her in answer, but it's a half-hearted, automatic response. She lays her open hand on his chest, feels his heart beating sure and steady as she sinks back to earth.  


“‘I have your back, and you have mine.’ ” Her gaze is soft again when she meets his eyes, deep currents circling in his amber irises. “We do this together. Remember?”

Recognition ripples across his features. “I remember.”

She smiles at him, just a little. Tugs on the hair at the nape of his neck. “So _trust_ me.”

He is the one who leans in for the kiss this time. It’s soft, and slow, and nigh on reverent; and she wraps her arms around his waist and plants her feet like a pillar, hoping he can feel through her lips and her embrace that she has strength enough to hold him, too.

“Zoeya,” he murmurs quietly when they part. “The caravan to the Crystarium leaves this afternoon. Lewrey should be back from the Empty in the skyslipper late tomorrow morning.”

She tilts her head in question. His hand comes up to touch her cheek. His eyes are full of that same emotion from the night before, and her heart nearly stutters in her chest.

“Zoeya,” he repeats, “ _ Ryne _ isn’t due back until late tomorrow morning. If you’d like to open your door…”

“Yes,” she interrupts, breathless. “Yes. Please.”


End file.
